


The Heart Is A Muscle

by saturnsthirdeye



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Background Triss Merigold/Yennefer of Vengerberg, Badass Jaskier, But that’s okay, Endgame Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae Magic, He has trouble putting two and two together, Himbo Geralt, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Jaskier, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Old Magic, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Wolf Pack, everyone is bi, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23625454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturnsthirdeye/pseuds/saturnsthirdeye
Summary: ”Jaskier is sitting cross-legged on the grass, his face partially illuminated by the warm glow of the flames. His baby blue doublet shines in the light, and his eyes, a match, seem to almost glow with reflection. His musicians fingers are holding... flowers? Geralt peers closer, and sees that the clever bard is making a little wreath of dandelions. He looks... ethereal.”Or: The one where Jaskier is fae, Geralt can’t connect the dots to save his life, and, with some help, the pair discover what it means to find your true family.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 216
Kudos: 1565
Collections: Fave Stories of Queixo, Geralt is Sorry, Just.... So cute...





	1. Dandelion Pins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you for checking out my fic!
> 
> I don’t write very often, so this is new to me. I’m very excited about it, however! I adore the concept of immortal Jaskier, and I want to try and explore that concept further! I will add tags as I think of them.
> 
> Also, I’m kind of ignoring the canon timeline because I feel like for this fic it happens in too short a time. Like, Jaskier is 9 when Blaviken happens. Nine! So I decided that won’t do for two immortal beings so I’m stretching it out a bit. I’m also mostly just familiar with the Netflix Witcher but I’ve done a lot of research for the other media so I’ll be incorporating little bits of what I’ve learned into this as well.
> 
> Enjoy :)

Sometimes, on missions, Geralt underestimates the power of his opponent. 

It wasn’t often that he was bested- even without his potions, he was a professional for a reason. He had potions and strength and enhanced healing. 

Sometimes, however, the monster he’s fighting gets in a few blows. 

This was one of those cases- while fighting a particularly nasty nest of drowners, he got some wounds that are a bit deeper than normal, and as he killed the final drowner, he gritted his teeth. His armor didn’t fare well, and the beasts had managed to get a blow into the soft part of his stomach. He gasped and wrapped an arm tightly over his stomach, calling for Roach. She galloped over as he was leaning against a tree, breathing labored. He used his free hands to swing himself into her saddle and uncork a murky blue potion, and squeezed her sides into a rolling gallop as he poured it down his throat. He needed to find a town. From then on, his quickly waning energy was spent on staying awake and upright on Roach as blood gushed from between his fingers, hot and sticky. 

There was a town nearby, he knew, but he was unsure if he would make it. It was easily a few miles away, and he could see the edges of his vision start to darken with each collision of Roach’s hooves on the soil. What was it called? Posada? The word escaped him in his haze. He just needed to find a mage, and hope that the humans would have more mercy on him than the drowners did. 

Doubtful. 

As the world around him started to tilt, he saw smoke rise in the sky, followed by the spikes of chimneys and rooftops. The last coherent thought that went through his head was that the town seemed a lot closer than he remembered, before his head hit the ground and the sky went black. 

——————

When Geralt opened his eyes, he was in a bed. He frowned, groaning as he started to sit up. A voice- medium to high pitch, distinctly female, not very pleased- objected. A woman rushed over and gently pressed on his chest, guiding him back down into the bed. Her plump face was filled with concern, wild chestnut curls falling in front of intelligent green eyes. The look on her face, one of genuine care and concern, was what coerced him to lay back down when he could’ve just as easily pushed her aside. That and her scent, one of strawberries and lilac and summer breezes. She smiled a kind smile as he obliged, and he couldn’t help but feel warm, like he had brought her pride. 

It was an unusual feeling, one that he’d only felt as a child, once upon a time. Before the Witcher training, before he held a sword. Back when he was just a child, smiling up at his loving mother. It was like a memory was gifted to him. 

As the woman backed away, humming pleasantly, he became distinctly aware that the aura she radiated was not a human one. “Are you the town’s mage?” Geralt growled, voice rougher than normal. The woman tutted and swooped over, petite and round and looking for all the world like the least threatening individual on the planet. She held up a cup, and Geralt smelled water. She gently held it above his mouth and poured it through his parted lips. He was parched, and he didn’t realize it until now. The water was the crispest he’s ever had, it seemed, and while it was difficult to swallow while laying down, it went down smoothly and without discomfort. 

“Now, it’s not smart for you to push yourself, really. But yes, I am the town’s healer,” she said, tone maternal and careful. “When Kolara brought you to my doorstep, I was worried it was too late for you. But you’re a strong one yet, dear, you’re going to be just fine.”

Geralt exhaled as he finished the water, licking his lips. He was brought here? This town must not know of Witchers, then. A rare find, but a valuable one. 

“Where am I?” He asked, and found it no longer painful to speak. “What’s your name?”

The mage didn’t even look at him, busy cutting vegetables and grinding herbs. “My name is Madura, and you are in Jildaan,” she stared, all business. She nodded her head at the bandages wrapped around his bare arms and torso, as well as one on his cheek. “You’ve been here for two days, and I’ve changed your dressings three times. You’re almost completely healed, but it’s going to leave a nasty scar.” 

“Wouldn’t be the first,” Gerald replied gruffly, and Madura chuckled. “As I saw, dear Witcher.” There went Geralt previous assumption. “What is your name?”

Something about the question felt wrong. He couldn’t tell why, especially considering how kind this healer was being. “Geralt,” he said, leaving out the “of Rivia”. Madura gave him an oddly knowing smile. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Geralt. Stay there, I’ll go get you some stew from the fire.” She bustled away, and Geralt closed his eyes with a sigh. He hadn’t rested for days before his injury, and he was finally starting to feel well rested for the first time in eons. He was starting to doze a little when there was a sound. 

“Dury, Dury! Look what I made!” Came the voice of a child, and Geralt smelled a new scent suddenly. Buttercups and grass and spruce. If Geralt could describe what he heard and smelled in one word, he would say “yellow”. He heard Madura’s warm chuckle at the excitement in the boy’s voice. 

“That’s beautiful, Julian. You made that yourself? With no help?”

“I did!” Geralt could hear the thump thump of Julian’s feet hitting the ground as if he jumped up and down. “Ma didn’t help me at all this time!” 

Geralt started to sit up (slower, this time) just as the kind healer entered with a bowl of stew, followed by an excited young boy. As they entered, Julian’s eyes fell upon him, and he gasped. Geralt noted that the sharp tang of fear is not present, an unusual thing in his presence. No, the young child’s cornflower blue eyes were wide with curiosity and wonder as they gazed upon Geralt, scars and bandages present for the world to see. The little boy couldn’t have been older than seven, freckles dotting his pale face with dozens of unique constellations. He was missing a front tooth, and his messy brown hair fell over his eyes. What was most notable, however, was his clothing. He was wearing fine fabrics, and there was a crest embroidered on his little blue coat. He was nobility- what was he doing hanging out with a middle aged healer? Odd. 

“Julian, meet Geralt, our newest guest,” aforementioned healer said, snapping Geralt out of his reverie. It seemed to have the same effect on the child, because he smiled brightly and ran over to Geralt, ignoring Madura’s “be _careful_!” as he practically collided with the side of the cot with his little body. 

“Why is your hair white? You have a lot of scars, mister! Why?? Why does your necklace have a wolf on it? Look what I made!” Geralt’s head was spinning with the flood of questions, and he instead focused on the bowl of stew being placed in his lap before looking at the object in Julian’s hands. 

He was holding in his tiny hands a beautiful, if sloppily made, metal buttercup. The words “by myself” repeated in his ear and his eyes widened further. How did this child-

Madura laughed heartily, reading his shock like a book. “Julian has taken a liking to creating, it seems. He’s been trying to make little metal flowers for a few months now. He’s a special one,” she added playfully, ruffling his messy brown hair as he objected loudly. Geralt smiled as he ate his stew, enjoying the comfortable exchange in front of him. It was a nice change of pace. 

After about an hour of being bombarded with questions (he can only say “hmm” so many times, he learned), Madura finally whisked Julian away from his new friend. “I think it’s a good time for geralt to sleep now. Say bye,” she said, guiding him out. 

“Bye Geralt! I’ll see you tomorrow!” Came an excited little voice, and Geralt felt himself smile a little. 

——————

Geralt stayed with Madura for another two weeks. He healed very well according to her, and when he offered to pay her with coin, she refused and sent him on errands instead. 

For two weeks, he ran errands for the kind healer, as well as got some new armor, seeing as his old set was effectively destroyed. He helped her cook meals and take care of those who needed healing. It was a nice break for him, and he felt a relax deep in his core, which he had never felt before. 

As he traversed around the town, he noticed a few things. One, the town seemed to be filled with the friendliest folks he has ever come across. They didn’t scorn him for his unusual appearance or his Witcher abilities- in fact, they seemed friendlier to each other than humans acted towards each other. Another thing he noticed was the amount of nature in the town. Flowers, everywhere. A little brook running through the middle of town, with clean, sparkling water. (When Geralt first saw it, a strange pull told him to drink it. He didn’t.) 

There were glass wind chimes everywhere, scattering rainbows on the surrounding surfaces. There were little fire pits here and there where he would see villagers commune sometimes, late in the evening, laughing and singing. Blossoming trees were everywhere, and the town was next to an orchard. 

It was like Geralt had stumbled upon a fairy tale, too good to be real. 

Strangely enough, the thought of leaving hadn’t even entered his brain until he was in the woods, hunting for Madura, and his medallion buzzed against his sternum. It was like a shock to him, and he quickly turned away from the source in his alarm. Right. He had a duty, a Path to follow. He came back and forlornly told Madura of his plan to help her one more evening and leave the next morning. She didn’t seem surprised, or upset. She just smiled bittersweetly and patted his cheek. “I understand, dear. Just let little Julian know.”

That was another thing- with every day that Geralt spent in Jildaan, he had been greeted with a little guest. Julian was talkative and high energy, and oftentimes Geralt felt like a babysitter with all the attention the seven year old placed upon him. He seemed to chatter away at all times, and was so exited to spend time with “the big man with the cool hair”. Geralt learned to love the kid, feeling a familial sense of protection for his energetic little friend. Julian talked and Geralt didn’t and it was a good thing they had going. 

He learned the boy was the child of a Viscount, and his family was very strict, though loving. He also learned the boy loved music, and loved to create, which his parents did not fully approve of, according to Madura. Geralt hoped that Julian would be able to eventually spread his wings and fly away from the life that would so clearly stifle him otherwise. 

When Julian popped in to say hi, Geralt told him regretfully that he would be leaving. Julian looked sad, his big blue eyes a little watery. But the brave kid nodded eventually, and gave him a shaky smile. “Then we should have fun today! Before you go!” Geralt couldn’t argue with that, and so the trio of a healer, a Witcher, and a child, sat around the fire and told stories and sang songs and laughed. 

They were like a little family, and Geralt dreamed of never leaving. 

Time waits for no one, however, and as Geralt woke the next morning, he sighs. Today was the day. He sat up and Madura walked in with a sad smile. He gave her one back. 

As they pack his saddlebags, a small commotion was heard. Geralt looked over in surprise as Julian sprinted over, a little bag slung over his shoulder. “Geralt! Geralt!! Wait!!” He was yelling like a tiny banshee, and Geralt knelt down as the boy stopped in front of him. 

“Hey, calm down,” Geralt said with a small laugh. “I’m still here. I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

Julian caught his breath before diving forward and giving Geralt a big hug with his tiny child arms. Geralt hugged him back gently, sighing. Julian pulled away after a second, and reached into his bag. “I got you this!! My mom and I made it. It’s for your hair!” And he placed in Geralt’s hand a beautiful golden dandelion hair pin. Geralt’s fingers skimmed over the beautiful, intricate details. He smiled softly, then gave the boy another hug. 

“It’s beautiful- thank you.” He said sincerely, pulling away to tuck it into a messy bun behind his head. “Does it look good?” He asked playfully and Julian giggled, nodding. Geralt smiled. “Thank you, little one.” He ruffled his hair playfully before standing, smiling at Madura. Smiling came easier here. 

She patted his cheek and pulled him down to kiss his forehead. “Stay safe, you fool,” she said, hugging him. “Try not to die.”

“I won’t,” rumbled Geralt playfully, hugging her tightly. “I hope to see you soon.”

“You will,” she said sweetly, but something in her eyes betrayed her words. He kissed her cheek anyway before straightening. He swung onto Roach’s back, hair out of his face for once. He said his final goodbyes, and with a heavy heart, rode off, out of Jildaan. 

If he ever mentions the town, no one recognizes the name. The first day out, he held the pin in his hand after waking. His head felt like clear water, purified after weeks of being cloudy. 

He never was able to find Jildaan again after that. 

——————

“I love the hair pin,” remarked Renfri twenty years later in their camp, tying Geralt’s hair up playfully as they talk and sit. When she looked upon her handiwork, he kissed her. 

He killed her the next day, and his heart clenched painfully as he tucked the pin into his bag. It stays there. 

——————

The first time Geralt meets Jaskier, the fool is having vegetables thrown at him. 

He sips his ale as the bard fights off the edible onslaught, and looks around the room. No jobs here it seems... he finishes the cold meal in front of him and looks up. 

“I _love_ the way you just sit in the corner and brood.”

Fucking hell. 

Geralt gives the idiot bard a deadpan look, heating him prattle on. He inhales and his eyes widen a little at the scent, oddly familiar, but he can’t seem to place it. Buttercups and grass and spruce. And, of course, sweat and vegetables. He’s surprised to not smell the sharp tang of fear. 

The fool snaps him out of his thoughts with a question, and he answers. “They don’t exist.” He says flatly. 

As he walk along about an hour later with a chattery bard behind him, a mission set upon him, he regrets opening his mouth at all. 

(He’s so busy trying to handle the situation with the elves, trying to reason with them, that he doesn’t notice the wide berth they give Jaskier. Or, at least, doesn’t deem it a necessary enough detail to think about it. He does see the look in Filvandrel’s eyes as he hands Jaskier a beautiful lute. It looks like respect.)

——————

Geralt is unsure how Jaskier managed to charm himself into performing for Queen Calanthe, the Lioness of Cintra. 

The bard is very charming, he won’t deny. He sees the pretty ladies flock to him, the maidens and wives and shopkeepers and bartenders. He performs with a flourish and he flits like a bird with his colorful fabrics and sweet songs. Geralt has also had to protect his idiot bard countless times from vengeful husbands. 

(His bard? The bard. Yes. The. Geralt shakes himself.)

As charming as Jaskier is, he’s still mystifying to Geralt. The man plays and sings and, where Geralt once saw people haze him, he now sees their attention turn towards him with rapture. He plays in the woods and it’s like even the leaves pay attention, the forest quieting as he plays. 

He manages to get himself a spot as top performer at Princess Pavetta’s betrothal party. 

When Geralt gives Jaskier a questioning look during these instances, the bard just smiles and blows him a kiss. Geralt eventually lets the performer be to do as he pleases, as long as he stays out of trouble. That’s when Geralt steps in. That admittedly happens very often. 

Either way, when Jaskier practically kidnapped him to accompany him to the banquet, Geralt’s eyes widened. This bard, who years prior had been pelted by rotting vegetables, invited to the largest celebration in decades, in the largest kingdom on the Continent? All he can spit out is surprised “ _How?_ ”

This earns him a mildly offended look. “Do you doubt my abilities, Geralt?” He replies curtly from where he stands beside the bath, but Geralt can heat the jest. “You wound me.”

“Hmm.” Geralt rolls his eyes and that earns him a bucket of water upturned over his head. 

——————

Geralt tugs at his collar with annoyance. As charming as Geralt had previously said Jaskier was, he’s changed his mind. The man is absolutely feral and he loathes him, he thinks as he looks down at the frankly ridiculous clothes he’s been forced to wear. He huffs in annoyance and Calanthe laughs. 

“You’re like an angry cat, Witcher. While I don’t understand why you’re helping that fool free of coin, I certainly don’t understand how he managed to get you to wear _that!_ ” She teases, and even an otherwise miserable Pavetta snickers. 

“He’s a little weasel,” Geralt says flatly, watching said weasel flounce along, singing bawdy drinking songs and causing the crowd to shout along happily. “And I hate him.”

“Oh hush,” Calanthe responds with a snort. “Don’t give me that, everyone can see the soft spot you have for him. You’re hiding nothing.”

She looks to continue, a sneaky gleam in her eye, when the doors fly open, and everything goes to shit. 

——————

Geralt doesn’t turn back to see if Jaskier is okay. He ignores the pull in his gut that says to do so, and practically runs out of the castle. 

Fuck Destiny.

——————

He doesn’t see Jaskier for another eight months following that ball. He’s emerging from Kaer Morhen after another winter of being locked away with the other witchers. He missed his brothers, as always, and he feels generally well rested (for once) and ready to begin yet another grueling warm season with the ungrateful humans and their monsters. 

He enters one (1) tavern and immediately finds Jaskier, playing and singing and bouncing around like he always does. The constancy of the man comforts Geralt, and, while he would never admit it, he’s glad Jaskier was the first person he finds. 

The smile that Jaskier shines his way is blinding.

“Sooo, when’s our next adventure?” The bard says excitedly not even an hour later, and Geralt sighs. He takes a sip of his ale. “My next contract is a nest of drowners, and you’re not coming with me,” he says flatly, and Jaskier deflates a little.

“Geralt, it’s been almost a year since I’ve been able to witness any of your.. heroic deeds. I’m running out of material! And I’ve never been injured on one of your contracts before! Well... gravely.”

As Jaskier rambles on, Geralt sighs. “Fine. But, for once in your life, you need to listen to what I tell you. Understood?”

Jaskier smiles like the sun and nods. “Of course! Ah, I’ve missed this! The White Wolf and the humble bard, reunited again!” He goes to strum his lute and Geralt shoots him a look. “Shut up and eat, bard. If you’re going to be joining me I’m not going to drag your exhausted ass with me the whole time.” 

Jaskier nods and eats, and Geralt sighs. After their meal, he pays the waitress, and walks to the stables. Roach whinnies as she sees him and he pets her snout, saddling her and mounting her back. She snorts as Jaskier tries to pet her, but doesn’t bite him. She’s always been more lenient with Jaskier than with other humans, even with Geralt when she first met him. Geralt considers it a betrayal. 

He can practically feel Jaskier’s question as they pass the inn. “Not enough coin. We’ll be setting up camp in a bit. Hurry up.” Jaskier doesn’t complain- he never has. With all of Geralt’s bitching and their less than ideal conditions, Jaskier has always stayed strong and cheerful. A constant. 

A few hours pass, and Geralt finally dismounts Roach. He’s found a little clearing in the trees, with the ground solid and dry, and the rising moon visible through the branches. He unpacks his bedroll as Jaskier hunts around for tinder and kindling for a fire. 

Geralt watches the bard work as he sets up camp. Always dressed extravagantly, he sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the foliage. However, he hums and smiles and moves around with armfuls of wood, uncaring of the mud and bark and grass that get all over the exquisite fabric. Geralt sits and watches Jaskier’s hands deftly, expertly, build a fire. 

“Where did you learn to do that?” Geralt finds himself asking as the bard rolls a stick between his palms, the friction causing the grass to smoke. Jaskier startles and smiles at him softly. 

“My family was very... nature oriented. We always had plants, and gardens, and we were taught young how to... brave the elements.” His words were careful, and Geralt furrowed his brows at the hesitation in his words. He opens his mouth to question it, when the fire roars to life. Jaskier grins widely. “Ta-Da! And you call me useless! At least I have-“ he does a little twirl before pointing at Geralt. “The magic touch!”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Fine. You’re in charge of making fires from now on. Time for you to start pulling your weight.”

Jaskier grins and nods. “As you wish, sir Witcher!” He exclaims, ever dramatic. 

“ _Hmm._ ”

After a moment of warming his hands, Geralt pulls out his sword and sharpening tools, a flat stone and oil. In the cool spring wind, the fire is a warm comfort, and he’s grateful. He looks up after a while, hearing Jaskier’s plucking turn to pensive humming. Geralt looks up and his breath catches a little. 

Jaskier is sitting cross-legged on the grass, his face partially illuminated by the warm glow of the flames. His baby blue doublet shines in the light, and his eyes, a match, seem to almost glow with reflection. His musicians fingers are holding... flowers? Geralt peers closer, and sees that the clever bard is making a little wreath of dandelions. He looks... ethereal. 

Geralt’s mind suddenly flashes to the existence of a similar ornament- a golden dandelion pin, tucked in his pack, untouched for decades. He tears his eyes from Jaskier regretfully at the memory- he didn’t want to think of the last time that pin was used. Not right now. 

He shines the sword until it gleams and could cut parchment, and then some. He’s so deep in his trance that he almost startles when Jaskier drops the crown of dandelions on his head. 

“What the fuck is this, Jaskier?” He growls, looking up at the bard. The other man smiles happily and laughed. 

“I’m sorry- it’s hard to take you seriously when you have flowers on your head-“ he says between laughs. “I made you a flower crown! Or rather a dandelion crown- people say that dandelions are weeds but that doesn’t make sense to me, because they’re flowers! They’re pretty! Weeds are gross and ugly and sharp, Geralt, have you ever stepped on a thistle? I guess you haven’t, you have your big heavy boots-“

“Jaskier.”

“Ah- yes?” He’s nervous; Geralt can smell it in the air. 

“Shut up.”

“Ah- okay. Right. On it.”

The dandelion crown stays, and Geralt can feel Jaskier’s smile like a sun from across the camp. 

——————

The nest is killed, and Geralt comes back to camp, exhausted and sweaty and bloody. There’s a bleeding gash on his bicep, and his face has a long claw scratch that barely is missing his eye, but seeing as it’s just above his eyebrow, his eye is blinding by a trickle of blood. And that’s just the injuries that he knows about- everything hurts, but that’s nothing new. He’s almost at the camp when he hears a scuffle and the sound of men’s voices. An unusual scent hits his nose and he curses under his breath. Bandits. 

He unsheathes his sword and charges to the camp, praying that Jaskier was alright. The fool had stayed back, and if he still got hurt, Geralt wasn’t sure how he would feel. Idiot attracts trouble. 

He runs into the clearing and immediately a man runs at him, big and burly and bearded. With one flash of steel, Geralt strikes him down, and prepares to cut down more foes when he pauses. Standing in the middle of a circle of bodies, a bloody arming sword in hand, is-

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier turns around quickly, and Geralt’s eyes widen a little at the little speckles of blood on his pale face. “Geralt! Oh, you’re hurt!” He immediately explains, rushing over to the Witcher. Geralt blinks at him, and all he can say is “You have a sword?”

Jaskier blinks at the blade in his hand owlishly, as if just knowing it’s there. “Oh- yes. It was a gift from ah- a friend. Handmade. I’m not much of a fighter, but it’s beautiful, and it helps in times of distress.” He holds up the sword and Geralt sees that the blade is covered in etched flowers of all kinds- roses and buttercups and dandelions and lilies and even small berries. He sees thin, dark violet lines along the edge of the blade and frowns.

“What is that?” 

“Oh,” Jaskier says sheepishly. “There’s belladonna essence in the blade. Nightshade poison. If it cuts the skin, it kills the victim through poison if I don’t get a killing strike. Only works on humans, however. I don’t like to use it often because most problems I’m in don’t involve killing my enemy. Now, quit gawking. We need to get those wounds of yours taken care of.”

Jaskier moves towards his pack, ignoring the dead bandits laying in the grass. Geralt counts- five, six? Did Jaskier really take on six bandits by himself?

“Sit _down_ ,” the bard tuts, and Geralt gives him a look. Jaskier pouts in response. “Your wounds don’t need a healer, and unless you want me to stitch them up standing, sit down. My hand will be steadier than yours. You can’t see, anyway, so let me help.”

Geralt sighs but sits cross legged on the grass, watching Jaskier with his clear eye. The bard’s clothes are ruined, splattered with blood, but he doesn’t seem to care. He seems unharmed, which is surprising. Even Geralt would have been injured if he fought six men and women. He hisses as a wet strip of cloth is pressed to his forehead, but relaxes as the blood is cleaned from the wound. This wasn’t new- from the get-go, Jaskier had been willing to show his prowess when it came to sewing up Geralt’s wounds, specifically the ones that are too deep for a healing potion to immediately fix, but too shallow to require a healer. Jaskier may be flighty and bitchy and loud, but Geralt could never call him useless, with his deft fingers using a needle, and sweet voice collecting coin. 

They sit there, Jaskier humming a soft, slow tune as he expertly stitches Geralt’s forehead wound, then his arm. The Witcher could practically feel the heat radiating from the bard, and his nose was flooded with the scent of grass and flowers and the spruce of Jaskier’s lute. He always wondered how, despite everything, Jaskier always smelled so pleasant. It was like he was made of music and nature, like it filled him so deeply that he always smelled of it. 

“That’s done- armor and shirt off, please,” Jaskier commands, businesslike. Geralt does so, with Jaskier helping to undo the straps he can’t reach without his wound causing him pain or bleeding more, and then he pulls off his sticky black undershirt. His torso is covered in scratches and bruises, he can see now, but those could heal quickly with his abilities. Jaskier looks him over before settling at his side, cloth ready. 

He watches Jaskier’s face as he moved the cloth to his arm. There a focus in his blue eyes that he sees only in specific circumstances, like when the poet is writing or figuring out a tune. He bites his lip when he focuses, Geralt notices. The bard looks up at him and smiles shyly. “What?” He asks quietly. “Is there something on my face?”

Geralt’s mind blanks, caught in the act. “I- where did you go? After the banquet,” he asks, unsure where the question came from. Jaskier ducks his head quickly, immediately putting his attention back on Geralt’s arm. 

After a few moments of silence, Geralt shifts. “Jaskier, you don’t-“ 

“I went back to my hometown.” His voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t go often, because my family can be... difficult.” Geralt is silent, letting Jaskier lead the conversation. 

“They never really approved of me being a bard. They always wanted me to stay and help out with the family, take care of the land. Said pursuing music was beneath me. Dobran was the worst with it- even when I visited he berated me for it, every time we spoke.”

“Dobran?” Geralt asks, a quiet rumble. 

“Ah- my brother. I have two older brothers and a younger sister. Dobran, Lenard, and little Felina. Well, not so little anymore,” he laughed quietly- almost bitterly. “She just had a baby. A boy named Jaska.”

“Like your name.” 

Jaskier snorts. “Sort of. My birth name is Julian.”

Geralt freezes as the name brings back a sharp memory. Julian, like the young boy who visited him and the kind healer over a hundred years ago, the pair that gave him the first idea of a... family. Maybe not the stereotype, but a group of people who were kind to him and seemed to love him gently. He loved his wolf pack, but it was different. Less swords. 

He wonders what became of the clever child and the kind mage. 

“Julian.” Hs tries on his tongue, for the first time in a hundred and twenty years. Jaskier looks up expectantly, and Geralt feels his mouth twitch upwards a little at the corners. “Jaskier suits you better.”

Jaskier smiles brightly and ducks his head. “I’m glad you think so- it’s more fun that way. I picked it because it was less stuffy. Felina is the only one that approves,” he added with a happy look in his eye. “She was the one who gave me my dagger.”

“It’s... beautiful. She knows you well,” Geralt remarks and the bard flushes. 

“She’s a good sister. Closest person to me in my family- she knows me better than the rest. I appreciate that.”

They sit in comfortable silence before Jaskier stands. Geralt processes that he had finished stitching him up about halfway through the conversation. 

He missed the warmth at his side. 

“Let’s head to town, shall we? Get that,” the bard nudged the squishy bag on the ground at Geralt’s hip, “to whichever poor sap decided they want a drowner head.”

“The poor sap will be paying for our dinner,” Geralt replies easily, standing and throwing on a clean shirt from his bag. “So okay nice.” This warned him a dramatic gasp. 

“ _Me?_ I always play nice!”

——————

In Geralt’s bag, the dandelion pin shines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll hopefully post the second chapter within the next week? I don’t expect this to be more than two parts but I’m gonna go with the flow!
> 
> The pin mentioned is [this one!](https://www.etsy.com/listing/560072990/large-etoile-pins-1615?ga_search_query=Pin&ref=shop_items_search_8) It’s what I envision, at least!
> 
> Title from the song “My Heart is a Muscle” by Gang of Youths


	2. Flower Petals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gears are starting to turn, Geralt learns more, and the pair meet a new friend. Destiny waits for no one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay hi wow this got SUCH a wonderful reaction and it excited me so much that I’m posting this just over a day later vs like a months and a half later like I expected! Wow! 
> 
> Your comments were so sweet and encouraged me so much! Thank you <3
> 
> I don’t think this chapter is as light as the other, but I don’t consider it angst either? Idk but I figure it worth mentioning! 
> 
> I also was planning on this being maybe 2 chapters and I was HOPING for at least 7k words but now I see this being about 4 chapters long and at around 20k words so there’s that too! But we’ll see how it goes ;)
> 
> I also think most of you have figured this out by now but this story will interweave with the canon series of events (with some little changes) so it will include the last couple of episodes, especially Rare Species onward. So if you haven’t watched those, you’ve been warned.
> 
> Enjoy! I know I enjoyed writing it!

When the Child of Surprise is born, Geralt can feel it in his bones. 

_“Geralt?” comes a voice- high pitched and delicate. That of a child. “Geralt, where are you?””_

_Geralt spins around- he’s surrounded by trees, fog choking his vision. He can’t see further than the first couple of trees surrounding him. “Hello?” His voice sounds terrified in his own ears, and his heart is thudding under his ribs. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”_

_“You can’t outrun destiny, Geralt.” He turns and looks into the intelligent, weary amber eyes of Vesemir. “It found me when you were born, and it’s found you now. Don’t fight it.”_

_Geralt opens his mouth to speak, and a hand taps his shoulder. He whirls around and blinks as one of Renfri’s clever blue-green eyes winks at him. Her short hair is tucked tightly behind her head. “A forest again, huh Geralt? I told you, the girl in the forest is your destiny. She’ll try and find you, just like I had.” The damned princess reaches back, her brown hair falling around her head as she presses something into his palm. “Don’t run from her. For me.”_

_There’s a tug at his sleeve, and Geralt looks down. His breath catches as he looks into a pair of familiar cornflower blue eyes, curious and inquisitive. Julian smiles widely, a dark spot where his tooth would have been. “You’ll be okay. Don’t be scared! We love you and she will too.”_

_Geralt spins, looking at them all. Vesemir, his father figure; Renfri, his first love; Julian, part of his first family. He looks at his hand, and uncurls his fingers. His heart drops as he looks at the gorgeous golden pin in his palm. “What do I do?” He asks desperately, looking up, but they’re all gone, vanished into the mist. “Help me!”_

_”You’ll find them. Destiny has linked you to many, Geralt. Be patient. It’ll be okay.” This voice is female, lilting and intelligent-sounding. Geralt holds the pin to his chest, and closes his eyes, swearing under his breath. And when he opens them-_

He awakes with a shout. Geralt sits up quickly, looking around with wide eyes, panic mode setting in. He looks around the inn bedroom, eyes eventually settling on-

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouts, cornflower eyes wide and worried. “Geralt, you’re okay. Hey, you’re okay.” The bard is crouched by the bed, having dealt with Geralt’s nightmares enough to know to keep small to prevent decapitation. The Witcher puts his face in his hands, exhaling shakily. 

“Cintra has a new princess.” He says after a moment, and Jaskier gasps. 

“Your-“

“Yes.”

Jaskier ponders this for a moment, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. Geralt looks at him, the bard at his most humble. He sits in his underclothes, illuminated by only the moonlight filtering in through the window. His eyes are pensive, and seem to glow coolly in the sparse lighting. 

“She’ll be stubborn,” the bard eventually remarks, and Geralt blinks. 

“What?”

“Oh yeah. Grandmother is the Lioness of Cintra, and destiny linked her to your cranky ass? She’ll be a tough one for sure. A princess and a Wi-“

“Shut up.” Geralt growls. He looks away, and Jaskier bristles a little at his tone. 

“I’m just trying to cheer you up-“

“Shut _up!_ I don’t want to hear you say that again!” Geralt shouts, eyes clamped shut. 

“And why not?” Jaskier is standing now, hands on his hips most likely. His voice is sharp and riled up. “I know you hate destiny and all, but why is that such-“

“Because I was a Child of Surprise! All Witchers are! Every Witcher is just a debt paid, and this princess is no different!” Geralt is staring him down, eyes blazing. His chest is heaving with the force of the confession. “She’s going to live a damned life like me! She’s cursed to this by destiny, like I was, and it’s not-“ he falters. Jaskier sits down again, and he feels a hand on his knee. 

“It’s not your fault, Geralt. Destiny works in... well, mysterious ways. It will be okay.”

Geralt shivers as the phrase echoes around his brain, five voices merging with each other. _It will be okay._ He looks down at his lap, then sighs. 

“I just- I need to sleep,” he eventually says, and he feels Jaskier’s hand leave his knee. 

“Oh. Okay, yeah. I’ll let you sleep,” the bard stands, and walks back to his own bed. Geralt lays back down, and turns to Jaskier. The bard isn’t facing towards him as he lays under his own blanket. He sighs again, thinking of the disappointment in the bards voice, and rubs a hand down his face. 

“... Thank you. Jaskier.” Geralt watches the poet shift, and hears him exhale. 

“Of course, Geralt. Now, get some sleep, yeah?” Jaskier’s voice is gentle, and Geralt closes his eyes. 

“Hmm.”

He doesn’t have any more nightmares that night. 

——————

If Geralt has learned anything from his time with Jaskier, it’s that the bard adores nature. 

He wouldn’t have suspected that, with how brightly the bard dresses and his love of the finer things in life, but it’s true. The bard has no qualms when it comes to climbing hills, wading through rivers, and traversing through mud. He loves animals, and always seems remorseful whenever one is killed for them to eat. He doesn’t complain, because he knows that it’s for the best, it’s the way of life, but Geralt can see the sad look in his eyes. 

He sings about the rising sun and the vivid sunsets, the stars twinkling on a clear night, and of the rain that patters on the rooftops of the inns they stop by. Geralt has caught the bard sitting outside during storms before, head bowed and eyes closed as the gentle strumming of his lute mixes with the violent crash of thunder, almost like a duet. Delicate and brutal, an add but beautiful combination. Geralt has considered dragging the fool back inside when that happens, but he looks so truly peaceful that he can’t bring himself to do it. 

But what Jaskier really loved, what made him smile like the sun and sing loudly, were _flowers_. 

Geralt would come back from a hunt, or a contract, and Jaskier would (if he can convince the foolish troubadour to stay at camp for once) be sitting on a log or patch of dry grass with a roaring fire ready, strumming his lute serenely as his head and clothes and even his lute are adorned in flowers of every kind. Geralt oftentimes wouldn’t even remember passing a wildflower patch, and yet, there they were. It was like Jaskier had summoned them himself.

And the bard smiles when he returns, and demands of him a story of his latest contract, or “tell me about one of your scars”, and Geralt would resist for a while until Jaskier gives him that big blue doe-eyed look, and then he finds himself speaking. 

Sometimes Jaskier just jots down the story and immediately starts to write his poems and songs as Geralt takes care of dinner, or washes off. Sometimes Jaskier offers up a crown or wreath of flowers, and Geralt can’t even argue without being immediately shut down by a playful, if bossy, bard. 

(Not that he minds, but he would never, ever admit that.)

Sometimes Geralt wakes and the flowers are already wilted. He holds them and looks up at Jaskier, unsure what to do. At this point Jaskier sighs, and gently plucks it from his hand. 

“Sometimes things aren’t made to last forever,” the bard would say wistfully, gentle, calloused fingers running along faded petals. “And it fucking is painful, yeah, but that means we just have to appreciate them when we have them.” 

The first time the bard said something sage like that, Geralt was startled. It was uncharacteristic for the happy go lucky performer, but also, it reminded Geralt of his friend’s mortality. The Witcher would look at his boots at that time, and try and convince himself not to run to save his bard’s life. He doesn’t like to think of Jaskier’s short human lifespan, but whenever he brings it up, Jaskier shushes him. So now he just cherishes the blooms while he has them. 

Sometimes, also, Jaskier would use flowers on his conquests, pulling beautiful party-colored daisies or glory’s flowers from his pouch, tucking them into the hair of pretty women or, to Geralt’s initial surprise, the shirts of pretty men. And they would whisk him away for the evening, and Geralt would order more ale. 

Much more ale. 

Despite the negative emotions that sometimes come from Jaskier’s constant attraction to flora, Geralt isn’t bothered by it. Sometimes he thinks of the pin in his pouch, and wonders how it would look tucked into Jaskier’s messy brown hair, or laced into the pocket of his doublet. A permanent addition to his flower addiction- a bloom that would last. 

He can’t bring himself to take it out of his pack, even when his fingers itch to. He refuses to possibly damn Jaskier to the fate of the last person other than Geralt to run their fingers over the tiny petals. 

——————

Geralt wakes one cool autumn night to a clap of thunder. He sits up, sniffing, but can’t smell fresh or oncoming rain- it must be a ways away, missing them. He rubs his eyes, and pauses. He looks at Jaskier’s frame, curled in a sitting position with his knees tucked up against his chest. The man looks out past the trees over the cliff they’ve settled by- in the moonlight the colored and decaying leaves below are only shades of blue and violet. 

“It always pains me, watching winter approach,” Jaskier says quietly. Geralt raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Everything starts to become colorful and beautiful, yes, in a different way. But then the cold sets in, and the colors are gone. I miss the flowers.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything for a few moments. Autumn often brings about a more solemn Jaskier, as if the settling of the life in the trees and plants around them affects the life inside Jaskier, too. It’s strange, seeing the bard get so solemn. 

Geralt finds that he doesn’t like it as much as he likes seeing Jaskier happy and flitting about, singing and dancing late into the night. 

“We can go south, if you’d like. Somewhere warmer, so you can see the flowers a bit longer.”

Jaskier turns towards him in surprise, face breaking into a hopeful smile. “Are you sure? You don’t have any witcher-y business up here?”

Geralt shakes his head. “In about a months time I’m going to head towards Kaer Morhen for the winter, so I can spare a few weeks.”

“Geralt, you big softie! You do care, you old codger! Oh, I should sing about it, “The White Wolf and his Wonderful Warm Vacation”- nah, too wordy. Oh! There are so many flowers that I can show you too-“

“Jaskier. Go to sleep.”

“Right. Night night, Geralt!”

“Hmm.”

——————

“Ah Geralt! It’s good to see you again, you fucking rat bastard!” Lambert exclaims with a laugh, slinging an arm over Geralt’s shoulder less than gently. Geralt laughs as well, hitting him in the stomach less than gently. 

“I could say the same for you too, you absolute son of a bitch. How many bar fights this year?” He felt more relaxed around his Witcher family- a band of brothers he can be himself around. 

“Hmm, 32. An all time low!”

“Did someone mention Lambert and bar fights?” Eskel pipes up from behind them, his hair tucked into a tiny ponytail behind his head. 

(Eskel always remarked on how Geralt should cut it, or tie it up, but Geralt always _adamantly_ disagreed. Lambert has threatened his hair with a dagger before.)

“At least my life is more exciting than yours, Eskel,” Lambert retorts with an eyeroll. “Geralt here seems to have had an exciting year too. Did you finally find a pretty lady, you cranky hoot?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I never do. Though at this point I should just make one up for you.”

“Are you sure?” Eskel asks curiously, nudging Geralt much more carefully than Lambert did. “You smell of perfume.”

“Perfume? I haven’t been around perfume.” Geralt looked between his wolf brothers with a raised brow. 

“Then how do you explain the flower smell?”

——————

“You know I don’t seek to pry into your personal life, Geralt, but there’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Geralt peers up at Vesemir over his hand of cards. The older Witcher is looking at him carefully, a silver eyebrow raised. 

“Hmm. Go on.”

“You arrived at Kaer Morhen this year with your pack practically bleeding magic. What did you do to acquire such an object?” This causes Geralt to blink in surprise. Magic? He hasn’t bought or bartered anything particularly magical this year, and he voices that. 

“I don’t even know what item you could be referring to,” Geralt admits, setting down his cards to take a sip of the vodka Vesemir brings each winter. 

(He winces with each sip, and Vesemir rolls his eyes. “Toughen up,” he says without malice.)

“May I see your pack then?” Vesemir nods to the bag sitting by Geralt’s chair, the bag that was previously holding his Gwent cards. He nods, handing Vesemir the small leather bag. 

The eldest Witcher looks through the small pack, and Geralt can’t help but shift uncomfortably. He has nothing to hide, and yet... he can’t explain it. He wants to defend that pack from anyone digging through it at all times. 

Maybe it just comes with being potentially surrounded by bandits all the time. 

“Found it. Gods above, this is drenched in magic,” Vesemir comments, and pulls out...

The golden dandelion pin. 

Geralt’s eyebrows furrow, and he fidgets uncomfortably at the sight of it after all this time. “I’ve had that pin for years. It was a gift.”

“Well I don’t know what you did to it over this past year, but this pin,” Vesemir peers at it curiously. “This pin contains some of the rawest and strongest magic I have felt in centuries. It would cost many mages a lifetime and a half to manifest even a tiny fraction of this much power, and it wouldn’t be nearly as raw. And I’ve never felt you join us with this power before this year. Did you meet anyone that could have infused it with chaos?”

Geralt shook his head. “No,” he says warily. “Is it dangerous?”

Vesemir shrugs as he studies the decorative metal. “It doesn’t feel malignant or benevolent, specifically. It just feels... pure. Like one of the oldest spirits of nature bottled their essence in this object. I can’t explain it.” The Witcher puts the pin carefully back into the little satchel, handing it to Geralt. “Protect it. An item that powerful in the wrong hands could raze a town.”

Geralt’s eyes widened. “What beings even hold that much power?”

Vesemir shook his head with a sigh. “Ones far beyond our beliefs.”

——————

It takes two months out of Kaer Morhen for Geralt to find Jaskier again. It takes probably about two hours before Geralt finds himself defending Jaskier from the husband of his latest conquest. 

(He watches the bard try and seduce him, too, but when the big, burly man grabs an axe, Geralt clamps a hand down on Jaskier’s collar and pulls out a sword. It didn’t last much longer after that.)

“I don’t understand why they punish _me!_ ” Jaskier wails dramatically as he plods along next to Roach. “I’m not the one cheating! Most of those women approach _me_ , I must add. I’m just the _victim_.”

“Hmm.” Geralt hides his smile. 

——————

Geralt wakes one night, though he unsure as to why. He looks around the dark inn room- there’s no danger that he can sense. He can hear rain falling on the walls, and when he looks over to the bed next to his, it’s empty. Jaskier’s pack is still sitting at the base of the bed, but his lute is gone. 

He stands, quietly moving out of the room down to the tavern. A bored night shift bartender recognizes him, and simply nods to the door. 

Geralt steps outside and looks at the bard. He’s sitting on a boulder, strumming his lute absentmindedly as the rain hits him gently. Geralt sits next to him, quickly soaked. 

Jaskier’s eyes are closed, and his face is turned up towards the sky. Raindrops sit on his eyelashes, and collect in the corners of his mouth before dripping down his chin in little rivulets. 

“I’m going to leave for my hometown in the morning,” the bard announces quietly after a few moments. “My sister’s asked for me.”

“When will you be returning?” Geralt finds himself asking, and Jaskier simply looks at him. His blue eyes are framed with sparkling water droplets. 

“I don’t know. Soon I hope. I can’t leave the world or my muse without my wondrous talent for too long, can I?” The bard winks playfully. 

“Hmm.”

“You know I’m right,” Jaskier looks to the sky again, blinking the drops out of his eyes. “Cranky Witcher,” he adds with a tired sort of jest.

They sit for a moment before Geralt stands. “I’m going to go back to the room. Should I expect you up soon?”

“In a moment. I want to stay out here a little longer.”

Geralt heads upstairs, changing out of his wet clothes and hanging them in front of the dying fire. They wouldn’t be fully dry come the morning, but it’s better than sleeping in wet clothes. 

He puts on a different pair of pants, forgoes a shirt, and towels off his hair. He climbs into bed, and fades in and out of sleep. 

He wakes slightly when Jaskier returns. “Jaskier-“ he murmurs, and the bard shushes him gently. 

“Sleep, dear heart.”

He does. 

——————

Jaskier is gone when he wakes. 

He finds that his close are perfectly dry and smelling of flowers. He looks to Jaskier’s bed, and an iris flower is sitting on the pillow. 

Geralt tucks it in between the pages of the small notebook he keeps in his pack. 

——————

He doesn’t see Jaskier for two years after that. 

During this period, he studies the dandelion pin. It doesn’t feel different to him- or look different for that matter. It still reminds him of Renfri- that hasn’t changed. He tries to recall the dream he had, years ago. Destiny...

He puts the pin away.

——————

When he meets Jaskier again, the bard has a pair of earrings. One is a beautiful light-blue stud to match the sea; the other is the same stone on a short silver chain. The combination is sparkly and delicate and unique and very Jaskier. 

He smiles at Geralt, and claps his hands, and announces he’s soon to be off to win the annual Bardic competition for the second year in a row! And oh, Geralt, how exciting it is that I get to see you before I’m off, and I can show you my songs and practice, and you had better be nice, I can’t have you ruining my fragile confidence!

Gerald rolls his eyes and sips his ale and hears him sing for an evening. 

Jaskier’s off again in the morning.

——————

Geralt stops sleeping.

Jaskier left for his competition, and Geralt heard a strange bard at a small tavern announce that she was the second place winner! Geralt asked the colorful lady if she knew who won first, and she said “the famous Jaskier, of course!”

She says that his bard was heading north, towards Blaviken. The name strikes a chord in Geralt and he nods, thanks her, and gives her a couple of coins before leaving. 

It was only a couple weeks after that that his sleep starts to suffer. He starts to lay awake at night, and even in inns he’s unable to sleep after a while. He’s struck by nightmares he can’t remember, and eventually, he doesn’t doze at all. He fights a manticore at one point, and he’s lucky it’s a weak one, otherwise he would have probably collapsed and died. 

He barely sleeps after that, either. 

As he approaches the Pontar River, Geralt hears from a merchant in passing that a djinn sits at the bottom of a lake near the river. He feels his heart lift- fucking _finally_ , he might get some peace. 

A few days later, Geralt’s growling as he pulls up another log. Aren’t logs supposed to float? He tosses the net back with a grunt, and freezes as he hears a voice. 

The voice is slurring, clearly some level of intoxicated. It takes a second before Geralt’s heartbeat picks up. Jaskier. 

If he was well rested, maybe he would have been more excited to see the bard. But for now, on maybe three hours of sleep over the time span of a week and a half, the voice only pisses him off more. 

As a tipsy Jaskier arrives, he sounds surprised, but otherwise pleased to see him in his drunken state. 

“What’s if been, months, years? What is time, anyway?” The bard slurs, and Geralt grits his teeth to keep from screaming _I don’t know, you’re the one who left_. 

The bard continues on his tangent, as Gerald drags the net up again. His head hurts. He dubs the bitter feeling in his gut at the mention of this Countess as a result of irritation from exhaustion. 

“Oh, are we not using ‘friend’? Yeah, sure, let’s just give it another decade,” the bard snips bitterly, and Geralt looks at him in exasperation. He still has his dangly jewelry- he’s dressed up as always. Geralt sighs and turns back to the river, throwing back the net. 

“I won, by the way. I won the Bardic competition twice in a row! I’d like to see Valdo Marx do that, the bastard.”

“Hmm.”

This couldn’t be dragged out any longer, Geralt laments quietly to himself. He considers just knocking the bard out himself. 

——————

When that thought crossed his mind, Geralt hadn’t _meant it._

Geralt réalisés with a start that he’s never actually seen the bard truly hurt before. Yes, Jaskier has had scrapes and bruises, he’s been knocked out by a rock thrown by elves, he’s only human. But interestingly enough, the bard has never been close to dying before. He squeezes Roach’s sides, urging her to go faster, as fast as she could. Jaskier’s hoarse breathing and choking echoed in his mind with each attempted inhale, each botched exhale. 

_Hurry._ Geralt pleads to no one in particular. 

_Please._

——————

After the fact, after a djinn and a healed bard and a damned beautiful sorceress beneath him, Geralt sits up, catching his breath. 

Yennefer sits up as well, her shimmering gown falling off one shoulder as she looks him over. Geralt rubs his face, yawning. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I boring you?” Yennefer drawls with a sarcastic smirk. Geralt shakes his head tiredly. 

“Just...” he yawns again, and even she reacts to it, covering her mouth as she yawns too. He gives her an amused look and she rolls her eyes. Mage or not, she’s only human. 

“I’m finally tired enough to sleep,” he admits. Yen nods in understanding and flicks her hair out of her face. 

“I have a bed for you,” she offers, a glint in her violet eye. Geralt snorts. 

“We’re laying in a ruin. I’m pretty sure your bed is under a rock.”

“Hush, smartass. I’ll put the place back together. Go see to your bard, make sure he’s not in any immediate danger. Again,” Yennefer adds, a wry grin on her lips. Geralt nods and stands on shaky knees, outing himself together before clearing a way to the door. 

He steps outside, and sees Chiraedan first. The elf is sitting on the rocky trail, and he looks at Geralt with an apprehensive and quite livid look in his eye. 

Geralt pointedly ignores this and looks around for the bard. He inhales, trying to catch the familiar smell of flowers and spruce. He catches it, faintly, but it’s stale. The bard is gone. 

Geralt feels a small pit in his chest that surprises him. He’s spent so much time away from the bard already- why does this affect him so much? He shakes his head, as if trying to get the feeling out of his body. 

He moves to return to Yennefer and her steady reconstruction of the manor, when Chiraedan stands. Geralt pauses and watches him approach warily. 

“I am not going to harm you, Witcher, though I do find in my opinion that you are far from adequate for Yennefer’s company-“ the elf starts, and Geralt’s eye twitches. 

“Out with it.” Geralt growls, and the elf sighs. Chiraedan hands him a blossom. 

“From your bard,” the healer says simply, before nodding his head and turning away. Geralt looks at the marigold, sitting in his palm.

He gnaws his lip, and heads to Roach, tucking the yellow bloom among the now-dried iris in his notebook. He returns to Yennefer, and tries not to let his mind linger on Jaskier. 

——————

Geralt starts to spend less of his time alone. 

It’s a couple more months before he sees Jaskier again, but a bit of that time he spends on and off with Yennefer. 

Gods above, Yennefer. 

Geralt isn’t sure what good he did for the universe to give him Yennefer. She’s a forest fire and it takes everything he has not to be caught in her smoke. 

He adores it. 

She’s intelligent and feisty and powerful. He’s watched as she brought her foes, from one man to entire towns, under her bidding if they cross her, if they hurt the innocent, sometimes if they threaten Geralt himself. 

And every evening he spends with her sticks to his mind, even when he wakes in an empty inn bedroom, with only the smell of lilacs and gooseberries to remind him of what occurred. 

In contrast, his evenings with Jaskier are an entirely different kind of experience. The bard still keeps Geralt on his toes with his quick words and his constant singing, even if sometimes Geralt wants to absolutely fucking _throttle him_. 

Other evenings are slow, thoughtful. The bard sits and writes in his notebook, or interrogates Geralt for details of past or recent contracts for his stories. Sometimes Jaskier just sits by the fire he made and strums. 

It makes the nights that Geralt spends alone much quieter. 

With all that happens, however, he’s never seen Jaskier and Yennefer interact further. From what he’s heard from them, Yennefer is more amused by Jaskier than anything else. 

Jaskier could write _epics_ about how much he detests Yennefer. 

(“Don’t be so dramatic,” Geralt says one evening in response to his rant, and he very nearly gets a poison dagger plunged through his ribs by an indignant, feral bard.)

Which is why, a few years after the djinn incident, when a man is trying to coerce Geralt into hunting a dragon and Jaskier is failing to flirt once again, Geralt freezes. 

Because waltzing in, decked in furs and followed by a knight(? What the hell...) is Yennefer. 

Jaskier follows Geralt’s gaze and _adamantly_ refuses, but Geralt is sunk. 

While he and Yennefer haven’t had much more than maybe half a dozen fiery trysts, quick and passionate, Geralt can feel a pull to her. He thinks it might be adoration for her, but the stir in his chest is confusing. He would normally ignore it, if she wasn’t so captivating to him. 

He agrees to the hunt. 

——————

Gods, he has never regretted anything more. 

——————

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

The looks in both Jaskier’s and Yennefer’s eyes stay in his mind as he remains perched on top of the mountain. He can feel the heat from Borch’s egg at his back, even as it sits a ways away. His anger is ebbing, leaving behind an empty feeling. He’s been cruel to Jaskier, yes, but he’s never expected to see such a look of solemn finality in those cornflower blue eyes. Yennefer was a force in herself, and he hoped she would approach him again. Maybe he could try and mend things a little with her, but he couldn’t do anything now. 

With Jaskier, well. He’s shocked the bard hadn’t left sooner at times. 

“I hope you’re thinking about how you’re going to apologize to them,” Borch says, and Geralt sighs. 

“I thought you left,” the Witcher admits, and the dragon shakes his head, sitting next to him in human form. 

“I felt an immense power radiating from you, Geralt. I thought it was from the sorceress, rubbed off on you, but it would seem I was wrong. What do you have that could be so powerful, Witcher?”

Geralt pauses, before seeming fighting to be a fruitless cause. He pulls out the shining dandelion pin from his pack, and hands it to the dragon. Borch’s eyes widen in shock when it touches him. 

“Wherever did you get this?” Geralt shrugged in response. 

“It was a gift from over a century ago. It wasn’t powerful for years, but... a friend felt its power suddenly one year. It hasn’t changed other than that,” Geralt explains, feeling weary just explaining it. He’s sick of that damn pin. 

Borch studies it carefully. “This is old magic, son. Earth magic. Only a being purely in tune with nature can create something so charged. And you said it wasn’t like this when you received it?” 

“No, at least I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel different to me,” Geralt admits. Borch hums, handing it back to him. 

“I’d say your best bet is a particularly powerful nymph, or Fae.”

Geralt scoffs. “Fae are a myth. Or extinct. They haven’t existed for eons, if ever.”

Borch gives him a knowing smile. “Neither have golden dragons.”

——————

When Geralt reaches the bottom of the mountain, he smells no trace of the grass/buttercup/spruce scent that is Jaskier, and certainly not the lilac/gooseberry scent that is Yennefer. He feels a small spike of fear that maybe Jaskier didn’t make it back down, but then he remembered six huge bandits laying at Jaskier’s feet, their deaths unrelated to the poison on the bards blade. 

Geralt rubs his face before looking down at the dandelion hair pin in his hand. He’s been putting this off for far too long. 

It’s time to figure out what the fuck is going on. 

And he knows who to go to first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little note about me- I adore flowers and the language of flowers. In the Victorian era, flowers were used to convey messages, like how you give someone a red rose to show love of the romantic nature. Only like, with hundreds of flowers. A while ago I spent maybe 15 hours of my time and made a [whole list](https://bit.ly/3cHDztj) of flowers and their meanings! So if you want to see what Jaskier is conveying with his floral gifts... 
> 
> (The marigold he gives him is just a generic marigold for those folks)
> 
> I’ll also explain it more next chapter for those who don’t feel like looking! 
> 
> As a whole thank you all for reading this, it makes me so happy to be able to share it with you guys! Xoxo
> 
> Check out my [art here!](https://saturnsthirdeye.tumblr.com/tagged/Bellas-art)


	3. Thorns and Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt searches for answers, but doesn’t find them in the way he had hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> To begin, I once again can’t thank you enough for your kind words and kudos! Every time I get an email telling me I got a new comment, it makes me so excited, so thank you all for being so wonderful and kind! 
> 
> I had trouble writing this chapter at first, but I redid it a couple of times and thankfully got my groove back! That fact made me so excited that I am abandoning my normal “wait til morning to post” philosophy, because posting early = happy brain juice.
> 
> So enjoy!

After the dragon quest, Geralt spends the next three months trying to contact Mousesack about the pin. He’s no mage, and has no easy contact to any mages (seeing as the only other one he talked to regularly left him on top of a mountain), so he sends a letter and tried to employ various other random means to get his attention, eventually receiving a letter of summons, handed to him by a bored inkeep. When he’s not doing that, he’s living his life as he normally would have otherwise, taking contracts and generally being a Witcher. 

As the days pass, everything becomes more and more hellish. 

At first, save for the crushing guilt of his words that he tried to ignore, Geralt was fine. His hunts were quiet now, sure, and for maybe a week Geralt was fine with the peace of it. The quiet felt more and more deafening as the weeks persisted, until he felt like he was suffocating from the silence of not having a companion, of not having _Jaskier_. 

He never realized he could miss the bard this much. Yeah, they’ve traveled separately for months, years at a time, but Geralt always got the sense that he would see the bard again. It was more of a pause than a finale. 

But now, as he camps out in the woods and stays in inns, the realization hits that maybe he’ll never hear the bard’s voice again, that he probably won’t hear the bard’s incessant chattering late at night. As the days pass, this fact seeps in further, and Geralt’s heart sinks. 

To make matters even worse, even existing was getting harder. And that’s not in the sense that Geralt is having more trouble mentally getting up in the morning (he always has anyway but that’s not the point) but it’s literally harder to exist. As the weeks pass it’s harder to find good places to camp because every wood he enters is overgrown with brush and ivy and vine. Geralt will pay for inns and wake up to moss growing by his pack and floaty seeds and spores coming in through the window, causing him to sneeze violently. He’ll camp in the woods in a clearing that he made by hacking away branches and plants, and wake to roots and vines encroaching on his space and, on a couple memorable occasions, wrapping loosely around his ankle or calf while he slept. 

(The first time that happened Geralt went into an absolute frenzy, as much as he would never admit it. Witchers aren’t scared of vines, even if they wrap around your ankle while you’re sleeping like some kind of awful creature.)

Surprisingly enough, all of these strange happenings never actually affected Geralt’s hunts. He was able to fight monsters without tripping over random sudden vines, or crashing into thorns. He still found food, and none of it was exactly dangerous to him. He was rarely hurt save for the scratch of thorns sometimes and him tripping over hidden tree roots. As a whole, it was like the earth was just trying to fuck with him. 

Which is why, as Mousesack stepped through a portal into a dark cave complex to an extremely disheveled Geralt, he burst into laughter. 

“Did you get into a fight with a bush, my friend?” The mage said in between snorts of laughter. He reached up (despite Geralt’s glare) and plucked a stray branch that was tangled in Geralt’s hair. The branch had a little blue flower and a couple smaller thorns on it. A burr fell out with a shake of Geralt’s head. 

“I’ve been having issues with... rowdy plants, lately,” the Witcher growled. “It’s like every time I look away some other tree or vine is out to trip me. Or grab me. Even in inns and taverns, they always find me.” His voice became exasperated which didn’t help abate Mousesack’s laughter. “Stop that.”

The mage grinned at him. “Alright, alright, don’t give me that look. I take it that this is why you summoned me? A curse maybe?”

Geralt shook his head, pulling out the dandelion pin from the pack at his hip. “This- I was wondering if you-“

Geralt froze as a scuffling sound was heard. He inhaled deeply, smelling among the dampness Mousesack and... others. He put away the pin and glared at the mage. 

“There are others here. Did someone follow you?” Geralt growled and the Druid shook his head quickly. 

“No- I wasn’t!” Geralt pushed past him, following the source of the sound. He glanced around, seeing bodies flitting about. He looks at one of the threats, eyes narrowing as he eyes the Cintran crest. 

Fuck. 

He advances upon Mousesack, the assassins closing in quickly before the Druid portales them out. 

Geralt regained his bearings and steeled his gaze, for the first time in twelve years, upon the Lioness of Cintra. 

“We need to talk.”

——————

Geralt ends up in a cell. 

Calanthe had sent the assassins, unsurprisingly, and the action infuriated Geralt. He argued, and from there it took one mention of the princess for the enraged queen to throw him behind bars. 

Stuck in his little stone box, his armor and packs across the hall, Geralt decides to just meditate. He kneels, eyes closed as he lets himself fade into it. 

He dreams. 

He dreams of a fair haired princess, blinking owlishly up at him with big blue eyes. He hugs her tightly and doesn’t let go. 

He dreams of Yennefer, meeting her in woods and taverns and even once on the mountain. Every time he does so she furrows her brows at him, letting out a confused “Geralt?” each time. Sometimes she asks where he is, or what he’s doing there. He can’t answer, and the dreams fade. 

He dreams of Jaskier the most. 

He dreams of him singing and dancing in taverns. He dreams of the quiet nights with Jaskier strumming idly or making little flower wreaths. He dreams of the bard’s face smiling at him from across camp, eyes illuminated by firelight. 

In the dreams sometimes he chats with Jaskier, mindless conversations that he doesn’t remember. Sometimes he just listens to the bard ramble on about anything and everything. Once, like skimming over a memory, he finds himself once again at Pavetta’s betrothal banquet, and the sneaky bard, dressed in gold, pulls him into a dance. Geralt fights it at first but finds he can’t resist humoring Jaskier. 

Sometimes Geralt kisses him, and the brilliant performer kisses him back. 

The first time he imagines this, he’s shaken out of his meditative daze by the clang of the bard as his meal is slid under the door. His sixth meal, he notes- dinner on the third day. They don’t feed him too terribly, he’s honestly had worse, but he can barely taste the bread and lukewarm stew as his brain spins around the thought of him kissing Jaskier, and the ache in his heart at the thought of Jaskier returning the action. 

Geralt has known for some time that he misses the bard, took him for granted. He’s known that he loved him in his own right, enjoying his company and companionship. 

But as Geralt sits in his cell, he ponders what kind of love he truly feels for Jaskier. 

And what he can do to get him back. 

—————— 

It’s on the ninth day of meditating and pacing around a box that it all reaches a head. As he settles down for the night, the cell dark and musty (he’s starting to miss the rampant plants just a little...), Geralt finds himself thrown instantly into a dream. That fact isn’t particularly unusual- after a few days of fantasies of kissing Jaskier senseless, of holding the bard close and slow dancing with him bathed in flickering firelight, Geralt fell into sleep readily. 

(Does he spend his waking hours questioning everything he knew about himself? Oh absolutely, but that’s not necessarily the point.) 

What was different about this night, however, was that this dream was much more vivid than the others. Geralt stood on a beach, the crashing of waves thrumming gently against his ears. He can see the shore as if he was there himself, his Witcher senses heightened the way they aren’t normally in dreams. He can smell the sea salt and the damp sand and the cool air, feel the pinpricks of mist hitting his skin. Geralt looks down and sees that he’s simply wearing a black shirt and pants, no armor or shoes. The cloth smells clean, and the white sand is soft and warm under his feet. 

Geralt looks around. The sun is barely beginning to set, the sky a pale blue still, and cloudless. Taking a few steps forward, he takes a deep breath in, tasting salt. It’s peaceful. 

Geralt gives himself a few moments to just exist in the environment, relaxed in a way he hasn’t been in a while. He understands why Jaskier wanted to go to the coast. He hopes that he can make things up with the bard so he can take him here, with the soft sand and setting sun. 

Turning, Geralt sees a figure sitting quietly on the beach. He approaches her, taking note of long, shining black curls and pale skin. She has a pair of massive wings sprouting from the back of her open-backed white sundress, open and curled loosely in the sand. The vivid blue and orange feathers of a kingfisher don’t startle Geralt as much as they probably should have, and the Witcher simply sits down next to her. He studies her face- her vivid blue-green eyes are sharp and without makeup, her lips plump and her cheekbones high. She wears delicate jewelry similar to Jaskier’s shiny silver and blue earrings, bright aquamarine crystals sitting in pointed ears. Curling turquoise marks sit on her cheekbones and forehead and even a small stripe on her lower lip, and the lines curl around two thin horns on her forehead. The marks swirl around her bare shoulders and biceps, settling in pretty little marks and spots on the backs of her hands and the tops of her feet. Her nails are blue, and so very sharp- a reminder that she is not just beauty. 

“You’re Fae, aren’t you?” Geralt asks, and the woman smiles in amusement. 

“You won’t waste time, do you?” She responds, looking him over. Her startlingly blue eyes cause a shiver to run down Geralt’s spine- not one of arousal, but more of the feeling that she could see into his very soul. “Business is your forte. I can respect that.” Her voice is smooth and lilting, like warm honey. 

“What’s your name?” 

She ignores his question, looking back out to the sea. The tide laps gently at their bare feet, the water cold but not unbearable. “The sea is a beast. So is the earth,” she hums, pensive. “You’ve hurt the earth. Why?”

“I don’t understand. I’ve never done anything to the earth-“ Geralt shakes his head. “What is going on? Do you know?”

The mysterious Fae sighs, powerful wings shifting in the sand. “There’s so much you don’t know, Geralt, but all in time. I promise, you’ll get your answers soon. But I need a favor of you.”

Geralt blinked again the sound of his name, surprised. But all he can choke out is a hushed “what?”

She takes his hand, leaning forward. Despite catching a glimpse of sharp teeth, Geralt isn’t scared as her lips settle by his ear. 

“I need you to find him, son of Destiny,” she whispers. “Find him, and show him home. Can you do that?”

Geralt nods dumbly. “Yes. I can.”

The Fae hums in pleasure at his confirmation. “Thank you, dear heart.” Geralt feels soft lips press against his cheek. “I bless you with safe travels and swift blade. You’re going to need it.” 

Geralt feels a soft hand squeeze his palm, and as he opens his mouth to ask for enlightenment, he wakes abruptly to a very loud crashing sound. 

The Witcher sits up quickly, coughing as dust fills his nose. 

“Oh good, you’re up. Get your armor, we’re leaving,” commands a businesslike female voice, and Geralt blinks blearily as out of the dust and smoke steps-

“Yennefer?”

The sorceress gives him a wry grin. “The one and only. Now off your arse, it’s time to get a move on. Those guards won’t stay under for long, up.”

Geralt stands quickly, rushing across the hall to collect his belongings. “Why did you come for me?” He asks curiously and receives an eye roll. 

“I’ll answer your questions when we’re not breaking out of a Cintran prison,” she says curtly, exhaling as she starts to summon a portal. As it opens, the pair quickly rush through, just barely hearing the clamor of guards as they reach the closing door. 

Geralt looks around at their new surroundings. They’re on a hill, near the forest’s edge but far enough away to keep any woodland creatures from straying too close. A tent is set up a few lengths away, and Yennefer doesn’t look at him as she strolls towards it, long black skirt whispering over the grass. 

Geralt follows, entering the tent shortly after her. Just like on the mountain, the tent is much more spacious on the inside than it would seem from just looking at it. There’s a fireplace in the corner, and tables strewn about. To Geralt’s surprise, sitting at one of the tables is Triss Merigold, her tight brown curls tied behind her head with a piece of cloth. 

She looks up at him and smiles. “Hello, Geralt. Pleased to see that you made it out alive,” she added playfully. Yennefer snorts as she busies herself at one of the chests of things in a corner of the tent. 

“Hmm,” Geralt rumbles, for lack of a better response. He watches Yennefer- he realizes that his current focus on her is no longer out of wanton attraction and more out of suspicion, unsure of her motives and awaiting a response. She raises an eyebrow at him. 

“I sure hope you’re not still enamored with me, Geralt, really,” she says with and edge to her tone and he shakes his head. 

“Why did you free me?” He responds, and she sighs.

“I found your horse,” Triss responds instead. “On the outskirts of a forest nearby. And when I couldn’t find you anywhere, I figured something was wrong.”

“And then you started randomly appearing in my dreams,” Yennefer continues. “But every time I tried to talk to you and ask what the hell you were doing in my head, you were gone. Eventually the two of us decided to try and track you, and we found you in a Cintran prison cell. So that begs the question,” the sorceress crosses her arms and jutted her hip out, giving him a Look. “What the hell were you doing in Cintra in the first place? Everyone knows you’re not exactly welcome there.”

Geralt shifted slightly on his feet, then sighed. He reached into his pack and pulled out the pin. “I was looking for answers about this.” He held it up and Triss’s eyes widened. 

“Where did you get that?!” She exclaimed in shock and wonder, rushing to him and plucking the pin from his fingers. She runs her fingertips over it inquisitively. 

“I was injured around a hundred or so years ago, and found myself in a town called Jildaan. It was given to me there, as a gift.” Geralt grits out. He’s uncomfortable- he hasn’t mentioned that name since he left, when all he got was confused looks in reference to the town’s name. 

Triss and Yennefer look at him with wide eyes. 

“Geralt, Jildaan is a Fae village. In fact, it’s like the capital city for their kingdom. You don’t go there on accident,” Triss says slowly. “All Fae hide their towns, and only those led by fate or destiny find them, it’s said. Especially a city like Jildaan, the home of the most powerful nobility of their kind.”

“Wait- what? Kingdom, hidden Fae village?” Geralt’s head was spinning from the onslaught of new information. 

Yennefer nods, gently taking the pin from Triss. “It’s one of the most protected cities they have. It’s protected by the children of the King and Queen, children who are even said by prophecy to be the most powerful Fae to exist.” She studies the little accessory closely. “Who gave you this?”

“Ah- the son of a Viscount. His name was Julian. A _prophecy?_ ” Geralt chokes out, brain struggling to keep up. 

Triss gives him a knowing look. He doesn’t like it. “Yes, a prophecy. We were taught it in Aretuza.” Yennefer says as she walks over to one of the wooden cabinets, pulling out a scroll of parchment. She hands it to Geralt, giving him a similar knowing look. The Witcher takes it hesitantly, unrolling the old, dusty parchment. It smells faintly of flowers, he notes, as he reads the faded text. 

“ _When sun and forest meet at last  
A red streaked legacy will fall  
Four will emerge, from chaos’ corners  
With strength no one could once recall_

_From four, the first, from Destiny divine  
A flaming eagle, brings light and power  
A kingdom rise, flame will defend  
And illuminate the darkest hour_

_The second, stretching far and wide  
As wind buffers strong flight  
A strength of wit, a manner calm  
For all decisions must be right_

_The third with songbird wings abound  
Blue feathers, bright and bold  
A quick tongue calls to Destiny’s son  
Of the earth, a valor to behold_

_The final, fair but no less sharp  
Loyal to the rivers and seas  
A kingfisher need not dive deep to find  
A fighter to bring a kingdom ease_

_As black and gold descend upon  
Mirrored lives, intertwined  
A bridge between two worlds created  
And victory one will find_”

He clears his throat as he reaches the end. “What does this mean?”

Triss points to the text. “The current dominant Fae kingdom used to be two warring kingdoms, led by Queen Lechsinska and King Anatol. Their names reference a lesser woodland creature from legend, and a sunrise. Sun and forest. They got married, ending the war, and had four children, said to be the most powerful Fae in history.”

Yennefer smirked at him. “Fae don’t have lords or Viscounts- they’re not as vain as humans, or at least as greedy. The boy you mentioned, Julian? One of the princes, specifically the third mentioned. _Of the earth_.”

Geralt’s heart was starting to thud in his chest as things start to slowly connect. He looked at the pin. “So that’s a pin made by a young Fae prince that I was destined to meet a hundred years ago...” he furrowed his brows, disbelieving. “And he’s the third?”

The pair of mages nod. “Prince Julian, also known as the Prince of the Earth, is the third,” Triss reiterates. “The first born is King Dobran, of flame, then its Prince Lenard, of air, and the youngest is Princess Felina, of water.”

And Geralt feels his stomach drop. He wobbles a little on his feet, memories and names starting to flood his head. He leans against the table. Yennefer furrows her brows as he feels the blood leave his face. “What’s going on with you?”

Geralt takes a shaky breath. “And you said these are... the _most powerful_ Fae in existence?” he manages to spit out, and the two sorceresses nod again. It all made sense now. The flowers, the belladonna blade...

“Jaskier is the third Fae Prince.”

Triss and Yennefer blink at him in shock. 

“Are you quite certain?” Triss said carefully at the same time Yennefer’s eyes widen in realization. 

“That explains the ridiculous amount of energy I always felt on you. But it wasn’t you was it? It was him, and this damn pin.” She holds it up, violet eyes wide as saucers. Geralt nodded. 

“Those are his siblings names. It’s him,” the Witcher confirms, mind reeling. 

They sit in shocked silence for a second before Yen’s look turns to accusation. “So you mean to tell me,” her voice is low and deadly. “You’ve been in the presence of one of the most powerful creatures in existence, a being that literally is said to be the Prince of the Earth...” Geralt nodded hesitantly. “And you _broke his heart on top of a fucking mountain._ ”

Geralt winces, his chest aching with regret. Triss gave him a flat look as he choked out a small “yes.” That explained they vines grabbing his ankles. And the woman in his dream... she told him he hurt the earth. Geralt’s head hurt as everything connected all at once. 

“Geralt, you dumbass! What were you thinking?” Yennefer starts, and Geralt growls in frustration. 

“I was upset! I was hurt and angry and scared, Yen! I lost you and then I lashed out and I lost him too and it’s my fault okay? I know that!” He bellows, heart thumping in his chest. “I’d do anything to get him back! Even if it meant giving up everything, if I could get him back, let him know that...” his voice cuts as his breath heaves. “Let him know that I’m _sorry_.” Geralt feels exhausted all of a sudden, as if he’d been awake for days. His hands were shaking and he couldn’t look the mages in the eye. It was too much. 

They sat in silence again as Geralt got his bearings, feeling adrenaline spike through his system. He’s overwhelmed, and panicking a little at the onslaught of information and stimulus. He hears Yennefer sigh. 

“Lucky for you, we might be able to track him. This pin will help,” she says carefully, sounding resigned. “But it will take a while. You’d have to stay with us while we run the spell.”

Geralt nods in understanding. “If you’ll have me,” he rumbles quietly, and he feels Triss’s hand touch his arm. 

“I’ll set up a tent for you,” she says gently, squeezing his forearm before bustling away. 

Geralt and Yen stand awkwardly, Yennefer spinning the pin between her fingers. 

“... I wanted to... apologize to you, too,” Geralt admits hesitantly. He wasn’t used to this. “For the wish-“

“It’s fine,” she said quickly. “I mean it’s not fine that you magically connected us without telling me, and I _will_ be making you help me break the tie, but you’re forgiven. I have better things to focus my energy on than being furious with you. Though I’m not very inclined to sleep with you, anymore,” she admitted, and Geralt nodded, sighing in relief. 

(Her glance towards the door where Triss left did not go unnoticed, however, but Geralt wasn’t going to push it at this moment. It wasn’t difficult to notice the single bed and how close the two sorceresses stood.)

“Me neither. I’m glad we can at least be... friends?” He offered awkwardly, relieved when she nodded. 

“Friends,” she agrees. “If we’re friends, however, you have to tell me what’s going on with you and your bard.” Yennefer’s painted lips spread into a mischievous grin, and Geralt groaned. 

“There isn’t-“ he started before she scoffed at him. 

“Bullshit. You met him when he was just a child, linked by Destiny herself, and you’ve traveled together for years. When we’ve talked you always mention him at least once, and when the djinn almost killed him, you couldn’t sit still,” she listed off. “You stare at him and let him touch you and sing about you. It’s a wonder it’s taken this long.”

Geralt shifts on his feet awkwardly, remembering the bard’s face, illuminated by firelight that Jaskier had made- with magic. Because he’s Fae. 

“I-“ Geralt starts awkwardly. “I was afraid. Of his fearlessness, of his mortality. I figured he would leave eventually- I didn’t want to get attached. And when I met you, you were strong and powerful and I didn’t have to worry about you-“

“Dying.” Yen finishes, and tsks thoughtfully at that. “That was part of my allure to you too,” she admits. “You’re strong but didn’t try and control me. The wish was shitty, yes, but you never tried to undermine me or my power. Consider, though,” she adds. “Jaskier isn’t mortal. If anything, he’s probably not much younger than you.”

“Hmm...” Geralt rumbles at that, thoughtful. She’s right. “I dreamt of him.”

Yennefer’s eyes brighten with interest. “Oh?” Is all she says, and Geralt nods. 

“Of being with him again, of...” he pauses. “Of kissing him.” It was incredibly strange and out of his comfort zone to admit these things, but to see Yennefer in front of him, to smell the familiar lilac-gooseberry scent that he never thought he’d smell again? It comforts him. Geralt frowns after a moment. “I dreamed of a woman, too. By the ocean, with wings and horns and marks on her skin. She called me the son of Destiny.”

Yennefer blinks before raising her eyebrows. “ _Sharp tongue calls to Destiny’s son_ ,” she recalls, speaking the prophetic line curiously. “You and Jaskier are linked.”

Geralt sighs. “I’d appreciate it if Destiny could leave me alone for a bit, please.” He grumbles and Yen laughs. 

Triss returns with a playfully confused smile on her face. “I hope I’m not missing anything too exciting,” she remarks jovially, and the pair of old lovers, now friends, promise her she didn’t. 

They spend the evening in an easy way- they open a bottle of wine and simply compare tales, the pair of mages pressed against each other after Geralt makes a snarky comment about their new connection. It’s easy, and calm, and beautifully familial. Geralt finds himself relaxing around them the way he would his wolf pack, and it dawns on him that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t need to search for a family. Maybe he should have just let them come to him. 

——————

Geralt retires early, as Yennefer begins the tracking spell. 

“We should have the results by morning- normally they would be quicker, but Fae are tricky. This one has to be more thorough and careful, so it will take longer.”

After hearing that, Geralt heads to his tent. He’s pleased to find Roach standing outside the small abode, eating grass. He pets her soft snout and gives her mane a careful once-over with a brush, apologizing for being away for so long. As the sun sets low, he retreats into the tent. 

It’s spacious, similar to the one the sorceresses share, if a bit smaller. Geralt couldn’t be happier, however. He was able to take a nice bath, the water kindly left by Triss (he would have to repay her at some point her her kindness) warmed by Igni, and then he settled into a warm bed for the first time in weeks. He truly could not be more grateful.

He fades into sleep, deep and comfortable. 

——————

_Geralt looks around, cursing at the prospect of another dream. He’s on the edge of a forest, the plants ahead of him seemingly more vivid and luscious than any other plant he had seen, save for the ones that Jaskier summoned from time to time._

_He grits his teeth as he realizes where he is. And he whispers a low “fuck” at the large blue feather he sees sitting innocently near the edge of the forest. Easily the length of his hand, the bluebird feather only meant one thing._

_It would make sense for the Prince of Nature to hide here._

——————

When Geralt wakes, the sun has already risen, the sky bright. He quickly dresses and rushes to Yen and Triss’s tent. He’s relieved to see the former outside, starting to pack up the belongings of her own horse. 

“Geralt- the result came back from the spell,” Yennefer says immediately, all business per usual. “It said that he’s at-“

“-Brokilon Forest,” they finish together. 

——————

Geralt fiddles with the pin, as he gets Roach ready to go. He packs up the tent (with some help- he can only do so much with magic) and watches his companions prepare for an extremely large portal. 

“We can get you and Roach to the edge of the forest,” Triss informs him, “But we won’t be able to portal you back.”

Geralt nods in understanding, heart thudding in... nervousness? At the thought of seeing Jaskier again after over four months. After knowing the truth about him, a truth that he never told Geralt himself. 

He can’t think about that now, however. As he sends his well wishes to Yen and Triss, the pair holding hands tightly to prepare to share their power, he mounts Roach. The mare is, thankfully, steady and sure as she walks through the spinning portal, and Geralt shivers in anticipation as he looks upon the forest in front of him. 

The plants are as vivid and beautiful as ever, the trees a massive wall. Geralt dismounts Roach after finding a good place for her to stay, with lots of green grass and decent cover. 

He walks back past the wall of trees and brush, until he reaches the singular gap in the flora. 

He grits his teeth to steel himself, and steps forward, into the forest. Towards Jaskier. 

Gods help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. You heard me. Jaskier is unbelievably powerful and literally just him being sad made the earth and nature harass Geralt. I love me some feral Jaskier and so I have myself some Scary Powerful Jaskier! 
> 
> Also when writing out “Prince Julian” I made a vow to myself that he would always remain a prince at the highest because if I had to write “King Julian” in a fic unironically I would cry.
> 
> I Woriginally wrote out the prophecy but didn’t like what I wrote around it, but I spent like 2 hours trying to figure out how to make it *chefs kiss* so I couldn’t not add it!
> 
> Also yes the woman Geralt meets in his dream is Felina, Jaskier’s sister. Yes I am gay for her too.
> 
> Also also, everyone in this show is bi and I will stand by that so have some cute Triss/Yen for your soul. Muah xoxo
> 
> Coming up next: Geralt comes face to face with an exceedingly powerful and livid Fae Prince.


	4. The Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt has to speak his mind and his heart in a big strange forest. I’m sure he’s thrilled about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!! The chapter you have all been waiting for!!
> 
> I thank you all again for your wonderful kind words and kudos, and for that I give you a slightly longer chapter than normal! Huzzah!
> 
> A fun note, but I guess the notes at the end of the first chapter didn’t show up at first?? I fixed it, so if you want to check them out you can, but the main parts about that is that I left a [link to the inspiration for the dandelion pin,](https://etsy.me/2XtJgXc) and also the fic title came from “The Heart is a Muscle” by Gang of Youths. Fun facts fun facts!!
> 
> Things get real here, my friends. Brace yourselves and enjoy.

Geralt takes exactly four steps into the forest before an arrow buries itself in the ground next to his foot. He instantly falls down onto one knee, head bowed and hands open by his head. He had purposefully decided to leave every weapon he had with Roach (even if his instincts were screaming at him to not leave himself so unprotected), and the only things in the tiny pouch on his belt are the golden pin and his notebook with his pressed flowers. He’s without armor, on top of it all- clothed in only a black cloth shirt, worn black pants, and a pair of leather boots, without a sliver of silver or steel on his person save for his medallion, he feels extremely vulnerable. 

“I do not wish harm upon the Forest or its inhabitants,” Geralt announces to the dryads that he could sense hiding in the trees and brush. “I come unarmed.”

“You are not welcome here, Witcher,” comes a steady female voice from his right, and Geralt resists the urge to move. 

“I only wish to speak to Julian, Prince of the Earth,” Geralt replies, the moniker strange on his tongue. “I do not wish quarrel upon anyone in this forest, nor do I want to colonize like the humans or armies. I just want to see him.”

“It was the Prince himself that declared he didn’t want you here,” came the same voice again. “Leave.” He can hear the rustling of leaves as the dryads emerge, closing in on him with their bows. If he moved too fast, he would be dead in a heartbeat. 

“I arrive with a gift. It is in the pouch at my side,” Geralt shifts just enough, slowly, for said pouch to be more visible. He can hear bow-strings tighten. “I am begging for your kindness. Please, give these to him. If he wants me gone after this, I promise I will leave and never return.”

“This is not his forest, Witcher. He is a guest, and does not get a say in our decisions.” He hears one of the dryads approach anyway, plucking the pouch from his belt. “Why should we keep you alive?”

“You have no reason to,” Geralt admits, bowing his head further, exposing the back of his neck. “I only come with that pouch and my humble request.”

He heard the pack as it was opened, and the resulting gasp. “This is earth magic,” one of the dryads whispers. “This feels like the Prince.”

“Where did you get this pin?” the first dryad asked him, more curiosity in her voice than before. Geralt’s eye practically twitched at the question, having heard it so many times by now. 

“It was a gift, from him to me. I offer to return it to him, if he should want it, in exchange for even just a minute of his time.”

There was a moment of silence as the dryads converse in whispered tones. Geralt doesn’t try and listen- he simply keeps his head bowed and breathes, hoping that he can get to see Jaskier again. 

Footsteps retreat, before coming back a number of moments later. “The Witcher may have an audience with the Fae Prince,” said the first, authoritative voice, and Geralt sighs in relief. Very slowly, he raises his head and stands, and while the dryads’ sharp arrows did not move from their aim at his body, they did not shoot after he risked a step. 

Geralt blinks as one of the dryads approaches him- she peers at him with vivid green eyes and a scar on her lower lip. Her dark skin is decorated with even darker paint around her eyes, and her hair is tied up by thin vines. “Follow me,” she commands curtly, and turns to walk down a thin, rocky trail. Geralt does so, at least two other dryads flanking him, weapons drawn and pointed at him. Every instinct he has tells him to defend himself, save his skin, get rid of the arrows near his body, but he resists. He came here for a reason. 

They pass a thicket of trees and Geralt sees a clearing in a dip in the forest. Settled in the middle is what is probably the most massive tree Geralt has ever seen. The bark is gnarled and the curling roots thick enough and bumped out of the dirt enough for multiple people to sit on comfortably. It’s clearly the lifeblood of the forest, the emerald green leaves spread over the entire clearing, leaving light speckles on the vivid green grass. There’s a massive gaping hole in the middle of the tree, and Geralt’s trained eyes can see two figures curled in it, talking. The hollow is high enough for an individual to easily climb up into it using the rough bark or stepping on one of the protruding roots. 

As they approach, one of the individuals glances over. Geralt recognizes her from stories- the Lady of Brokilon, Queen Eithné. He inhales deeply and amongst the thick smell of mud and earth, the dryads’ scents so seamlessly intermixed with that of the forest, he can pick out the scent he’s grown oh so familiar with: grass, buttercups, and spruce. Jaskier. And yet, intermixed with it, is a scent he hasn’t smelled on the bard before. It’s clean and sharp, like the tang of a lime mixed with mint and silver. It’s unique, and cool on his tongue, and Geralt knows it’s the distinct smell of magic. 

Geralt’s heartbeat picks up in his chest, and it feels like it’s awakening after a long sleep, previously put to rest by regretful words atop a mountain. 

The Witcher’s careful eyes watch Eithné’s form as she leans toward Jaskier, his form shadowed and hidden in a swath of deep blue. She appears to press a kiss to his forehead, before sliding carefully out of the hole in the trunk. The powerful Queen approaches Geralt, before stalking past him without a word. The look she gives him before she leads her warriors away gives him a very clear message:

_Fuck up, and I won’t have to kill you._

Geralt gulps, feeling, for the first time in a very long time, nervous? He fidgets before walking carefully down the hill to the base of the trunk. He stands a bit away from the trunk, a pair of gnarled tree roots winding around where he stands. 

There’s a shuffling noise, and the shadowy blue blob in the tree moves as Jaskier emerges. 

And oh _gods_ , is he beautiful. 

Geralt’s breath catches in his throat as he looks upon the bard- the Fae. He certainly looks the part now. 

Where to begin- Jaskier is dressed in an elegant green doublet with matching pants, embroidered pink flowers weaving their way up one side of his chest. Being around Jaskier for so long causes Geralt to recognize the spiky pink petals as those of a dahlia. Around his neck is a delicate golden chain with a small golden locket- a new accessory, it seems. His silver and blue earrings have been replaced by tiny gold chains and dangly green emeralds, pierced through elegantly pointed ears. Around his slim waist is a leather belt, holding a few pouches and multiple weapon sheaths, holding small, intricate daggers and the all too familiar sheath of Jaskier’s poison shortsword. 

And then, the Fae aspects of the bard. Jaskier is taller, it seems- where he was nearing Geralt’s height previously, he’s easily as tall as the Witcher now. A small pair of curving horns sit atop his forehead, extremely reminiscent of the sharp thorns of an acacia tree. They fade to an emerald green at the tips, and Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes and his sharp horns are surrounded by delicate green markings. Geralt is reminded of the Fae in his dream, but where her blue marks were more reminiscent of the rolling waves, Jaskier’s green marks look like curious vines, twisting on his pale skin. The tendrils curve mostly around his eyes and horns, curling on his cheekbones carefully as tiny leaves emerge from the lines. They continue a little more on his neck, disappearing under his doublet. On the middle of his forehead there’s a little mark, shaped like a small trifecta of leaves. The Fae’s once dull nails are green and shiny now, and sharp as tiny daggers. Even his pale blue eyes seem to radiate raw power. 

And his _wings_. Folded loosely behind his back, Jaskier’s massive blue jay wings still trail on the ground as he walks, whispering across the grass. The tops of the powerful limbs arch a hair above his head still, giving a hint of how impressive the majesty is of his wings. The striking blue and white feathers are puffed on top of that, making them seem even bigger than they already are. Geralt blinks as he realizes the blue mass he saw was in fact black-banded blue feathers. With his wings now slightly opened, Jaskier pauses in front of Geralt. 

The Witcher, struck by the vision in front of him, can only muster a meek “Jaskier,” in greeting as he looks upon the bard. The Fae. The prince. His palms feel sweaty and Geralt wants to turn tail and run, but he keeps himself rooted in place. It takes all of his energy. 

“Geralt.” Jaskier replies curtly, looking the Witcher over with a careful gleam on his eye. Geralt gulps, feeling as exposed as if he was standing nude in front of the powerful Fae before him. 

Geralt clears his throat, feeling out his element. He knows what he needs to do, but gods was it difficult. “So... you’re Fae,” he starts dumbly, and Jaskier snorts in derision. 

“I am.”

“A Fae Prince.”

Geralt can smell a spike of irritation come off his old companion. “I am,” repeats Jaskier. “Do you know what that means?” His voice is careful and dangerous. Geralt shakes his head, a jerky, aborted movement.

“It means that I am incredibly powerful, did you know that?” Jaskier takes a small step towards him, only one, wings opening a little wider. A threat. “More powerful than _Yennefer_ , certainly more powerful than you. It would cost me no energy to kill you.” The bard’s blue eyes are cold and clinical, watching for Geralt’s reaction. He’s reminded of a feral cat, watching its prey as it squirms just a claw length away. Geralt resists the urge to fidget, to show weakness. 

“Do you want to?” Geralt finds himself asking, and he watches as the bard’s cold mask flickers in surprise. Geralt’s surprised too, honestly. Jaskier narrows his eyes. 

“Why are you here, Geralt?” Jaskier asks flatly, placing his hands on his hips. Geralt gulps as he steels himself. 

“I came here to apologize,” he starts, and Jaskier scoffs. There’s no mirth in it. 

“That’s rich, coming from a man who has had no issue relentlessly insulting me and eventually ditching me on a mountain,” Jaskier replies sharply, and Geralt flinches. 

“I mean it,” the Witcher stammers, feeling fear grip his heart. He sinks slowly down onto his knees, looking up at the bard, who isn’t hiding his surprise now. “I’m sorry. For everything, all that I said.”

Jaskier furrows his brows. “Geralt, it’s been four fucking months, and you come running to me now? Where were you then, hm? Why is it after _four mon-_ ”

“I was scared!” Geralt bursts out, yelling, feeling overwhelmed and out of his element. His heart is thudding and he wants to run and hide, or fight. “I was fucking terrified, and I didn’t know what to do-“

“And why were you terrified, hm?” Jaskier retorts, just as loud. His wings open wide in warning, puffed up and easily much, much longer than Geralt is tall. “Because I’m Fae, because I know your secrets? Because I could wreck your reputation-“

“Because I missed you!” Geralt’s chest heaves with the confession, feeling oddly winded. “Because I fucking missed you and your singing and your stories! And I was scared because that would mean that I felt-“ he stammers a little, but forces himself to continue. “That I had feelings for you. And I couldn’t lose you, so I wanted to push you away. Before you could leave or- or die.”

They stand in silence, staring at each other. Jaskier has an unreadable expression on his face, but Geralt saw his eyes flash with shock. 

“Because,” Geralt grits out, each word more painful than the last. Witchers don’t feel emotions, they don’t admit their deepest truths, and yet. “Because I would do anything to get you back. Give anything, everything. Even my life.”

At those words, Jaskier sucks in a breath through his teeth. Geralt catches his breath, feeling for the second time in two days adrenaline pulsing though his veins for reasons other than a battle with a malicious beast. 

Geralt watches Jaskier carefully as the bard sinks to the ground, kneeling in front of him. His wings stop puffing up, resting loosely folded on the grass. The bard looks down, fingers fidgeting with a blade of grass. Always moving, always busy. 

“I don’t want to kill you, Geralt. I was never going to.” Jaskier’s voice is quiet, almost shy. Geralt just stays silent, watching the Fae with tired eyes. They sit in silence for a moment, before Jaskier pulls the pouch that Geralt bought off of the belt wrapped tightly around his narrow waist. 

“Why did you give this back to me?” Jaskier asks, voice fragile as he pulls out the pin. Geralt sighs deeply. 

“I... I wanted you to have an out. If you didn’t want to travel with me, I wanted to give that back to you. It’s yours.”

Jaskier gives him a sad look, all heat gone from his form. “Oh, Geralt...” he whispers. He pulls out the notebook with the dried flowers in it. He gasps a little as he opens the pages, pulling out the dried iris. “And you kept these?”

Geralt nods sheepishly. “I... I liked them. You and your flowers.” The admission is heavy on his tongue, and his face heats up. It’s a novel experience, strange but not exactly unwelcome. Witchers don’t feel emotion, shouldn’t. 

Geralt scorns that rule as he watches Jaskier marvel over the dried flowers. 

“Flowers have meanings, in my culture,” the bard reveals after a moment. “Each flower is unique in its meaning, and the language of flowers can be spoken between those well versed. As I am.”

“What- what do they mean? These flowers?” Geralt asks, curiosity taking over despite the sheer terror in his lungs, the terror of fucking this up completely. He doesn’t feel as overwhelmed as he did before, thankfully. Jaskier sets down the marigold, from the djinn incident, and then the iris, gifted to Geralt as he left him alone in an empty inn bedroom, years ago. 

Jaskier gives him a gentle, amused smile at his curiosity. His eyes still are guarded, but no longer cold. The Fae smooths his palm over the iris, then the marigold, and they gain dimension once again. He also sets down the pin. 

“An iris,” he begins, gently stroking a blue petal, “signifies hope, and we often give it to those to tell them how precious their friendship is to us.”

Geralt lets out a low hum, guilt digging deeper into his gut at that, at how he treated the bard. 

“Marigolds,” now Jaskier’s fingers ghost over small orangey-yellow petals. His voice trembles a bit, just enough for a Witcher’s trained ear to hear. “These signify pain. And uh, and grief.” 

Geralt looks up at Jaskier’s face. He remembers that he got this flower after- after sleeping with Yennefer. 

Geralt faintly recalls smelling Jaskier’s scent before he went outside that day. Does this mean that seeing Geralt with Yennefer caused Jaskier to feel this? Jaskier doesn’t look up, and moves to the pin. 

“A dandelion-“ there’s a delicate clicking sound as Jaskier’s sharp nail taps against the metal- “or, in our language, a _jaskier_ ,” he adds, glancing up at Geralt with a shy but playful grin. “Signifies faithfulness, happiness, coquetry and flirtation and young love.”

“It suits you,” Geralt says after a moment. “You’re always flirty and happy.”

Jaskier shrugged. “That’s why I picked it. It was something carefree, a name for a bard, not a prince.”

“Why did you give it to me? All those years ago?” Geralt’s hands grow clammy as he asks the question. Jaskier shrugs. 

“I was a child, and liked dandelions because of their free, joyful meaning. I didn’t realize how much the flower suited you until we met again and I got to know you. A plant scorned, under appreciated, when it should be respected for its strength and beauty.”

The pair look at each other at that, a tension thick between them. Neither moved, just... watching. Waiting for the other. 

“I didn’t recognize you when I first approached you,” Jaskier says finally, blue eyes flicking between Geralt’s gold ones. “But I was drawn to you. And then I realized who you were, and I was just drawn to you more.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Geralt asks, voice rougher than normal. “You’ve known this whole time- why didn’t you tell me you were him?”

Jaskier sighs. He looks down and smooths his thumb over the little gold petals of the pin. “It was almost a hundred and fifty years ago- I was scared. Not of you, but of the meaning of revealing who I am. Fae are hidden for a reason, Geralt.” He looks up at the Witcher with sad blue eyes. Geralt’s chest aches at the look. “Like the dryads, humans found out about us and wanted to kill us and take our power. They captured and killed us with iron weapons and chains. I was scared that something could slip, and someone other than you found out and...” he trails off. 

“And try and hurt you,” Geralt finishes with a sigh. Jaskier nods. 

“So I hid. Kept my glamour up, hid my powers. Sometimes I had to leave to help my family, even if I didn’t want to. When I’d rather have stayed with you.”

Geralt’s chest aches with the admission. “I never meant to hurt you-“ he chokes out. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.” The scorned Witcher bows his head, face in his hands. He hears Jaskier sigh. 

“I... I know you didn’t mean it,” the Fae says finally. “I was scared you did, and hurt, but deep down I think I knew you never did. I saw you with Yennefer and ached, and it all. Hurt. So much.” Geralt hears him take a shaky breath. 

“Why did you stay?” Geralt asks hesitantly, looking up, and Jaskier gives him a sad smile. “After all of that?”

And to his surprise, the Fae leans forward and kisses him. 

It’s chaste, and only lasts a moment, but Jaskier’s lips are soft and his hand is warm and rough where it rests against Geralt’s cheek and the Witcher couldn’t ask for anything better. 

Jaskier pulls away, his hand lingering before dropping to his lap, and he smiles sadly. “That’s why. I couldn’t bring myself to leave even when... well.”

Geralt shifts slightly, before giving Jaskier half a shrug. “Yennefer and I have decided that we uh... we want to just remain friends.”

Jaskier blinks. “What?”

Geralt nods. “She’s beautiful, but our relationship was mostly uh, mostly sexual.” He wrings his hands a little, nervous, and Jaskier’s sharp eyes flick down at the movement before going back to study Geralt’s face, gleaming with a look the Witcher can’t decipher, head tilted like a bird. He clears his throat before continuing. “I like to be around her, but I don’t think I would like her as much as a... as a traveling companion. Or as a partner.”

“What are you saying?” Jaskier whispers. 

“I-“ he clears his throat. “I meant it when I said I’d do anything to fix what I did. To have you with me again. I don’t want to be without you anymore.” 

Jaskier searches his face, the look in his eyes frantic. “Anything?”

Geralt nods. “Anything.”

Jaskier bites his lip before looking down at the golden pin. He hands it to Geralt, who takes it hesitantly. 

“Wear it. Please?”

Geralt processes this for a moment before he smiles a little. The fear jackrabbiting in his heart abates, and he pulls the little leather tie out of his hair, sliding it onto his wrist. With a practiced movement, Geralt twists all of his white hair into a messy bun, pushing the pin in place to hold the pale strands in place. 

It’s the first time he’s worn it since Blaviken, since Renfri, and it no longer hurts his heart to wear it. Jaskier’s eyes search his face quickly before the Fae surges forward and kisses him again, more fervently, arms around Geralt’s shoulders. 

Geralt makes a sound of surprise before he melts into the kiss, eyes slipping shut and hands falling to rest on Jaskier’s hips. The bard settles on his lap, wings curling around them in a soft cocoon. Jaskier tastes like sweet berries against Geralt’s lips, and the Witcher curls his arms tighter around his waist, pulling him flush. 

Geralt pulls away, gently nosing at his cheek in a shy, tender gesture. “Is that a yes? That you’ll join me again?”

Jaskier hums, pressing another soft kiss to his lips before nodding. “To the ends of the earth, darling.”

——————

They remain like that in the clearing for a while, admittedly. Jaskier stays in Geralt’s lap, pressed chest to chest with the Witcher who can barely believe that this is real. Geralt feels safe and warm surrounded by Jaskier’s thick feathers, and makes a point to press a kiss to the base of each of the Fae’s thorny horns. 

“I dreamt of you,” Geralt admits shyly. His lips are pleasantly tingling from Jaskier’s sweet kisses. The bard raises a curious eyebrow. 

“Oh? What of? I sure hope it was something quite scandalous my dear, I’d love to have that effect upon you even when I’m not around you.”

Geralt’s lips twitch into a tiny smile and he shakes his head. “I dreamed of kissing you. And dancing with you.”

Jaskier gasps a little in surprise, before smiling wide. He presses a kiss to corner of Geralt’s mouth. “Dear heart, all you have to do is ask.”

“Would you? Like to dance with me?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier nods happily. 

“Although,” the Fae says after a second, retracting his massive wings so they’re folded neatly behind his back. “As much as I’d love to stay pressed to you until the end of my many days, I think my dearest Queen Eithné may want us to move elsewhere.”

“No, don’t stop on my part,” came the dryad queen’s amused voice, and Geralt jumps. He didn’t hear her approach, which was alarming for him. Quickly, the pair stand, Geralt bowing to her. 

“Stand, Witcher. You have proved your worth to my dear guest, so I do not consider you a threat to my forest.” He stands slowly, and sees her smirking at him. Her elegantly carved bow is idle in her hand, arrows tucked safely behind her back in its leather quiver. “I will permit you to stay for one night, however. I am willing to be hospitable to the Prince, but this forest is not a permanent hideout for a Witcher.”

“I understand, my lady,” Geralt replies with a tiny bow. “I will stay wherever you wish for me.”

“There is a clearing a ways down the trail where the Prince is camped. If he should like, you may join him.”

“I would love it if you could join me, dear heart,” Jaskier exclaims, kissing his cheek. The queen nods. 

“The sun is setting soon. I recommend heading to your camp,” the queen advises. “There are creatures that reside in this forest that not even a Witcher can best.”

Geralt’s chest clenches at that, but Jaskier squeezes his hand in comfort. “Thank you, my lady. I bid you good night,” the Fae says eloquently, and Geralt hums in agreement. 

Jaskier leads him down the same rocky trail that they took to the massive tree in the first place, eventually pausing at a small clearing as the sun starts to set. Soft clover patches cover the ground, and there’s a small circle of ashes in the middle that clearly was once a fire. A pack is on the ground next to the bard’s beloved lute. Geralt dutifully starts to build a fire as Jaskier digs around in his pack, bringing out dried meats and cheeses and fruit. Carrying it to a grassy spot, Jaskier sits down, and presses his hand to the ground. Geralt’s eyes widen as thick, springy moss sprouts under his palm, and spreads across the grass and clover to make what looked like a makeshift cushion to sleep. 

Jaskier pats the soft moss and Geralt sits down, surprised to find it comfortable. 

“It’s not bedroll, but I hope it’s okay,” Jaskier admits shyly, and Geralt just presses a kiss to his temple. 

“Don’t worry,” Geralt assures him, and the beautiful Fae smiles. 

“You sure are touchy, aren’t you?” Jaskier says with a playful smile. “I like it.”

Geralt ducks his head with a grunt and Jaskier laughs brightly. 

The pair settle in, Jaskier’s wing wrapped around Geralt, warm and soft. Geralt performs Igni to light their fire, a feat he often cannot do out of sheer exhaustion by the time he usually makes camp. Jaskier gives him a playful nudge. “Thought making a fire was my thing?” the bard teases, and Geralt shrugs. 

“I’m not Fae Prince, but I can get around. How does your magic work, anyway?”

Jaskier bites his lip thoughtfully. “Fae don’t work the way mages do. Where Yennefer may be able to mess with people’s minds, or summon a djinn, Fae work solely with nature. We have little power as the mages do with their chaos, like my ability levitate things a little and glamour myself, but most of my magic comes from the earth. And where mages have to give to get, I don’t, if that makes sense. Fae are tasked with protecting nature, and so we are gifted powers. I work specifically with the earth, more than other Fae, so I can do really anything as long as it protects myself, the earth, or innocents.”

“Do you have powers the other Fae do?” Geralt asks curiously. Jaskier nods. 

“Most Fae are generally pretty powerless. They can light fires or grow beautiful gardens or direct small streams of water, but that’s it, really. Things of that nature. We are, however, known for being able to create excellent jewelry,” Jaskier adds with a cheeky grin, tapping the pin protruding from Geralt’s mess of a bun. “Some are higher tiers than others, and they help build or control weather sometimes. Little things, like a cloud or two. My siblings and I are the only ones who can do any real damage, and we’re generally pretty competent with the other elements too. Felina and Lenard, for example, can work together to create a mighty storm.” The bard sighs wistfully, and Geralt’s arm squeezes his waist gently. 

“I uh- I know about the prophecy,” Geralt begins, and Jaskier groans. 

“I hate the prophecy. My family lives by it religiously and it’s awful. They try and use it to dictate what I do in life.”

“How so?”

Jaskier taps the ground idly, tiny clover stalks sprouting under his fingertips with each little collision. “My oldest brother controls fire and he’s the most powerful, so he’s the king. Well, the new king, after my father retired. Lenard’s verse speaks of decisions, so he’s the diplomat of the family and of the kingdom. I will admit, he’s mighty good at it, though. He controls air. Felina’s verse mentions a warrior, so she was always destined to be a soldier. She’s the head of the military, and she’s magnificent at it. The Soldier of the Seas, they call her. And my verse only mentions ‘Destiny’s son’ and ‘valor’, so they didn’t have a set role for me. They wanted to force me to be an alchemist, but I refused. I wanted to travel and sing, and they hated that, so I ran. I visit when I have to, but Felina is the only one who supports my endeavors.”

Geralt hums thoughtfully. “It’s too bad, really. You’re the best bard I’ve ever heard.”

Jaskier gapes at him. “You mean that?” His blue eyes shine as Geralt nods. 

“I mean it-“ he tries to say, before he’s tackled by an enthusiastic Fae bard, who kisses him breathless under the rising moon. 

——————

Geralt wakes up to a warmth tucked up against his side, and a heavy weight on his stomach. 

He rolls over just enough to get her his bearings- presses against his side is Jaskier, head resting on Geralt’s shoulder as he sleeps. Warm breaths ghost over Geralt’s Adam’s apple as the Witcher looks over his companion. Jaskier had abandoned his outer layers, wearing only a lacy undershirt and trousers, golden locket chained loosely around his neck. 

_”Where did you get the locket?” Geralt asks Jaskier, kissing his collarbone._

_“My mother gave it to me, years ago, to help with my glamour. I just usually wear it under my shirt,” Jaskier explains breathlessly. Geralt presses a kiss to the piece of jewelry._

_“It’s beautiful.”_

Geralt himself is without shirt, and he smirks a bit at the tiny marks littering their necks. Looking down, he sees the soft weight on his chest and stomach is Jaskier’s massive wing, the other curled behind him. Geralt presses a kiss to his partner’s forehead, square between his sharp little horns, and Jaskier hums sleepily. 

“Morning, dear heart,” he yawns, and Geralt’s heart soars. 

What did he do to deserve this beautiful being, curled up in his arms?

——————

They leave Brokilon that morning, with hefty thanks to the surprisingly gracious queen. She simply presses another kind kiss to Jaskier’s brow, and gives Geralt a polite nod, before sending them on their way with an invitation to return should they need to. 

Geralt’s heart aches painfully as he watches Jaskier don his glamour, but the Fae simply kisses his cheek with a sad look in his eye. _It’s necessary_ , the look says, _even if we don’t like it._

“Where to next?” Jaskier asks as they approach where Roach was left, everything intact as usual. 

(Sometimes Geralt wonders if Roach was more than just a horse, with her intuition and ability to find Geralt should she have to run from danger. And then she does things like look at a rock and spook, even after getting four trees away from a fucking bloedzuiger, and Geralt is reminded that she is indeed just a horse.)

“Yennefer and Triss asked me to meet them in Dorian, which is maybe a week’s ride. How does that sound?”

Jaskier nods, eyes bright and curious. “Who is Triss? I don’t think I’ve ever met her? Ooh, is she Yennefer’s _lover?_ ”

Geralt can’t explain how much he’s missed the bard’s chattering, and he’ll never forget the shine in his bard’s eye as he offers a hand up to help Jaskier mount Roach. 

——————

They settle into an easy routine over the next week. 

Jaskier goes back to singing, since he took a break for about a month until Geralt found him. Geralt is once again blown away by how Jaskier can entrance a room, and it makes so much more sense now that he knows the magic that flows through his partner’s veins. It’s such a far cry from when he met the bard, that he wonders if he was even the same person as the man who was once pelted by rotting broccoli. 

“Write any new songs?” Geralt asks Jaskier as he locks the door of their shared inn bedroom, two days after they leave the forest. Jaskier locks the window shutters before dropping his glamour, feeling much more comfortable around Geralt now. He flushes deeply as he sits on the bed. 

“One... though it was written in a fit of jealousy, I am afraid.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums pensively, stripping out of his armor. “I want to hear it.”

“A-are you sure?” Jaskier asks, blanching. “It’s quite a downer, really, I’m sure it won’t exactly liven our evening-“

“Jaskier.”

“Y-yes?”

Geralt gives him an earnest look. “I want to hear it.”

Jaskier hesitates before nodding, melting under his gaze. He pulls out his lute, the same lute from so long ago, and starts to strum. 

_The fairer sex, they often call it..._

——————

Four days after they leave, Geralt returns from a dip in a nearby creek to clean the blood off from his latest hunt. 

He approaches their camp, the sun already long set. As he enters this night’s carefully scouted clearing, his eyes fall upon Jaskier. 

The bard is strumming his lute, most of his glamour dropped save for the magic hiding his wings (the most conspicuous part, and most dangerous to expose in an open wood). He’s bathed in firelight, flowers growing slowly around him, seemingly encouraged by the music. Geralt’s stomach flutters oddly, an increasingly familiar feeling lately. 

“Oh! Geralt, look at you, all clea-“

“I love you.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops at Geralt’s confession, so sudden and abrupt. Then, he stands with nothing but elegance, and draws the Witcher close, kissing him with the sweetest of kisses that makes Geralt melt under his fingertips. 

“Oh darling, how I love you too.”

——————

On day five, Geralt looks at Jaskier softly. 

“I think your sister visited me in a dream, before I found you.”

Jaskier ceases his strumming, looking at him with eyes wide. “Really?”

Geralt nods. “She looked like you, but with blue markings and black hair. She called me the son of Destiny, and encouraged me to find you, when I was scared of doing so at first. She told me to bring you home.”

Jaskier smiles gently, realization dawning upon his face. “I guess the prophecy did get something right, Destiny’s son. I called to you, and you came.”

“She told me to bring you home, however. But you don’t like going back to your kingdom...” Geralt says, thinking aloud, before he’s gently shushed by Jaskier. 

“I think she meant you.”

“Really?” Geralt asks, incredulous as Jaskier nods. 

“I think... I think you’re my home, Geralt. Being with you, even before the dragon hunt and the djinn, it just felt right. It felt perfect.”

This time it’s Geralt’s turn to draw his lover in for a heated kiss. 

——————

On the eve of day seven, Geralt tosses and turns in his inn bed. 

He’s nude this time, and yet he still feels too hot. He turns to see Jaskier watching him, the blanket slipping from his bare shoulder. 

“Can’t sleep?” the Fae asks, and Geralt sighs. “Me neither. Something strange is going on.”

“Is it worth staying?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier ponders this for a moment. 

“I don’t think so. I see no sign of sleep, for me at least. Shall we head out early?”

Geralt sighs a deep, shuddering sigh of defeat, and nods. 

——————

They reach Dorian as the sun reaches its peak, and it’s not difficult to find the witches’ tent on the outskirts of town. As the pair approach, Geralt sees Yennefer burst out of the tent to greet them, all nervous energy. 

“Thank god you two are safe,” she says breathlessly as the Witcher and the bard dismount. 

“What’s going on? Did something happen?” Jaskier asks before Geralt can even process what is going on, and Yennefer fixes him with a grim look as she nods in affirmation. 

“Cintra has fallen to Nilfgaard.”

Geralt’s stomach drops at the words, and the immolations behind them. 

“ _Fuck._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohoho, the story isn’t over just yet! We’re in the endgame now, boys.
> 
> I figured I’d gift upon you all a nice, soft, sappy chapter before things get really real next chapter. I super enjoyed writing this chapter, it was so fun! I hope you all enjoyed Jaskier in all of his Royal Fae Glory. 
> 
> Thank you all once again so much for reading! Xoxoxo
> 
> Coming up next: it all comes to a head for our heroes at the Battle of Sodden.


	5. Milfoil Grass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Sodden Hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello!! 
> 
> I am here with the most dramatic chapter yet- the Battle of Sodden hill. 
> 
> I’m very proud of how I played this, and I was able to finally put into place a lot of ideas I’ve had since the beginning of this fic. Big things!!
> 
> Admittedly this is also a very soft chapter in a lot of places because I couldn’t resist.
> 
> Thank you all for your amazing amazing comments and reblogs and kudos!! It made writing this chapter much easier :)
> 
> Enjoy!

For Geralt, things seemed to blur together for a while after the announcement. Yennefer and Triss move frantically, gathering their things and having him help mix ingredients for spells, preparing for their travels that they had planned the next day, and in case of emergencies or quarrels with the Nilfgaardian militia. Jaskier would disappear and reappear with plants and other ingredients, and for an entire day, they just prepare potions and spells with what they have. 

The entire time, Geralt is in his own head, thinking of the kingdom that was no more, the cell that he was in just over a week ago as he settles into the potion making’s soothing repetitiveness.

He wonders if his Child Surprise, the young princess is okay. If she survived. 

He sits with these thoughts, thoughts of Destiny and Nilfggard and the girl that’s technically his fucking _daughter_ spinning around his head until he’s practically dizzy. 

As the night falls, Geralt is shaken out of his repetitive daze by Jaskier shaking his shoulder. 

“Hmm?” Geralt grunts as the Fae gets his attention. 

“Yennefer and Triss said you don’t need to do anything else today,” Jaskier says gently, plucking a stray leaf off of Geralt’s shoulder. He carefully pulls the mortar and pestle out of Geralt’s hand, setting them on the large stump in front of him before he cups the Witcher’s face with a warm, rough palm. His bright blue eyes are filled with concern as he looks at Geralt. “Are you okay, dear heart? You seem distracted. You were so quiet today.”

Geralt feels a small flare of amusement, bright in the swirl of dark thoughts that have been occupying his mind. “‘M always quiet,” he mumbles, and Jaskier rolls his eyes with a small, relieved laugh. 

“I’m glad you’re good enough to still be sarcastic,” the bard replies with a smile, going on his tiptoes and kissing between Geralt’s eyebrows. Geralt pulls his lover closer, resting his forehead on Jaskier’s shoulder. Despite doing less than what he may do in a normal day, being so caught up in his thoughts was exhausting. 

Jaskier croons softly, brushing through Geralt’s hair with slim fingers. “Come on, my dear. Let’s tidy up and then settle down for the night.”

Geralt nods, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s shoulder before standing up straight. The pair pack up the ingredients and put the little bottles they have in a pouch, which Jaskier brings to Yennefer and Triss’ tent. Geralt hears them thank him as he approaches their own tent, which he had set up earlier that day. He enters the familiar abode, the same one he was in before he found Jaskier. He undresses, keeping on his underclothes as he places his armor, boots, shirt, and pants onto his pack on the ground. 

Geralt hears the tent flap open, as well as a small _whoosh_ just as the sharp tang of magic hits his tongue. He turns to see Jaskier with his glamour dropped, his favorite baby blue doublet folded in his hands as his wings stretch luxuriously. He stays still as his willowy love approaches him, nearly matching his height now. Large, scarred hands smooth over soft feathers (a privilege Fae only allowed their mates and children, Jaskier had informed an ecstatic Geralt days prior) before falling on slim hips as Geralt tugs him closer, touching their foreheads together. 

“What’s on your mind, dear heart?” Jaskier asks quietly, and Geralt exhales. He had promised Jaskier a few days ago that he would try and voice what he was feeling more, to help the bard understand what he needed. 

_”I don’t want you to be afraid of asking for things you want or need anymore, my dear,” Jaskier had said to his Witcher, eyes imploring. Geralt was startled by this- no one had ever cared enough to want to know what he needed, much less wanted. This had earned him a sad smile, but Jaskier didn’t budge. His heart ached at that, and the bard simply held him close in the following moments._

Geralt sighs. “Thinking... thinking that I was in Cintra just before I saw you. Thinking about my child surprise,” he admits slowly, and it’s like pulling teeth, even if it is a fraction easier than it was a week ago. Jaskier murmurs softly and takes his hands, squeezing them. 

“You’re worried?” The Fae asks gently, and Geralt nods stiffly. This earns a chaste kiss before Jaskier leads him to their bed. Geralt sits down, leaning against the headboard with closed eyes as Jaskier settles in his lap. 

“I don’t blame you,” croons the Fae as he carefully tucks Geralt’s hair behind his ear. Geralt aches with the constant, soft, encouraging touches. They’re so new, so different from the rocks or the swords or the sharp words he’s used to, and he’s becoming addicted to the tenderness. The worry that had been seeping into his shoulders all day slowly dissipates as he sighs. 

“We’re going to find her,” Jaskier says, and it sounds so much like a promise that Geralt can’t help but open his eyes. The bard’s face looks so determined in the dim lantern light of their room that Geralt’s heart skips. “We are. If it takes everything I have, we will find her. I promise.”

“Jaskier-“ Geralt stammers, but, always a man of action, abandons that plan and instead pulls Jaskier into a kiss, sliding his hands up a bare back, in between his wing joints to pull him flush. The promise was something Geralt didn’t know he needed, something he’s never imagined he’d have, something so sincere and honest and such a gift that he couldn’t keep the space between the man he was growing to love. 

“Thank you,” he ends up whispering as he pulls the beautiful Fae ever closer. 

——————

Geralt wakes to a cold bed, sitting up groggily as he looks around. Jaskier is up and dressed already, surprisingly, his glamour already back up. 

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Jaskier chirps with a wink when he sees Geralt, earning a tired _hmmm_. “Yenn and Triss said they’re going to Aretuza today. They want us to come with.”

Geralt rubs his eyes, furrowing his brows. Aretuza was strictly for mages- why would they want them to go? He voices this after a moment, and Jaskier shrugs. 

“I think they just don’t want to be alone- they want to be sure that everyone they care about is safe,” the bard reasons, sitting on the bed next to Geralt. “Plus, they’re paired with a legendary Witcher and an extremely powerful Fae. We’re important.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replies unhappily, sighing. He was right and they both knew it- doesn’t mean he had to like it.

Jaskier kisses his temple before standing again. “I talked to them about me being Fae, by the way. I haven’t showed them my glamour, nor do I plan to just yet, but... I’m glad they know.”

“They practically figured it out before I did,” Geralt grumbles, standing. He rolls his eyes at the appreciative look his mate gives at his nude form, earning a bright laugh. 

They get ready quickly, packing up their tent before meeting the pair of sorceresses outside. 

“When we get to Aretuza, you’ll only be able to stay on the lowest level,” Yennefer announces. “We should be fine, however- the meeting will be held there-“

“Hold on. A meeting?” Geralt says with a scowl, and the pair of women nod. 

“I received a summons from Tissaia De Vries regarding a meeting with the Brotherhood to discuss what to do next, regarding Nilfgaard,” replies Triss, earning a growl from Geralt. 

“Does she know that Jaskier and I will be joining you?”

She shifts on her feet. “I did mention that to her, yes. She has not told the rest of the Brotherhood but as the Matroness of Aretuza, she will not remove you.”

Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s hand as the Witcher sighs, relenting. Yennefer gives him a careful look should he dare argue at this point, but he stayed silent. She nods, violet eyes sharp as she turns away, murmuring under her breath as she forms what is probably the biggest portal Geralt has ever seen. 

They all step through, Roach trailing shortly behind, and in front of them sits a fortress. 

——————

They couldn’t portal inside Aretuza directly, so they walk the maybe 10 minute climb to the great wooden doors of the school. Yennefer pushes them open, and leads them down the ancient halls, being the most familiar with the building. Geralt notes that her back is unusually stiff and straight, and how she seems to refuse to look around the halls. She looks uncomfortable, but carries on. 

They reach a large room, and Geralt can hear arguing already, smell the sour, mixed scents of people and the hot spice of anger and feel the electric sting of magic on his tongue. It’s so different than Jaskier’s magic, he notes absently, with the Fae’s power smelling of plants and freshly polished silver, clean and sharp, yet subtle. This magic, the magic radiating from the dozens of mages in the room, amounts to a stinging, almost burnt taste that sticks to the back of his throat. Yennefer’s magic is a small electric zap compared to this overwhelming stench. He wrinkles his nose and coughs a little as the doors are pushed open, dramatically, in true Yennefer fashion. 

It’s apparent that they are late to the meeting, as Yenn earns a lot of glares from mages already passionately into arguing. It is even more apparent that Triss wasn’t lying when she said they didn’t know about Geralt and Jaskier’s presence- as they walk slowly through the doors, every mage in the room goes deadly silent. 

Then the outrage hits. 

“We were told this was going to be a Brotherhood meeting!” shouts one voice, female, from the throng. 

“Yeah, who the fuck invited the Witcher and his little bard?” sneers a male voice, closer to them. The jeers and anger intensify, souring on Geralt’s tongue. 

He notes that Stregobor stays silent during all of this, his eyes trained on Jaskier. 

“Enough!” A woman slams her hand on the massive table in the room, causing the mages to silent. Geralt is impressed by her ability to quiet the powerful group, and the small witch looks at him with clever eyes. “I invited them- the Witcher, like us, has a power to him, and we could always use a friend.”

“And what of the little musician?” The tone is mocking and female, and Jaskier bristles at Geralt’s side. 

“We travel together,” states Geralt simply, looking every mage over with a predatory glare. “If you wish to turn him away, you will have made an enemy of me.”

Jaskier looks at him with massive blue eyes, rightfully so. Geralt is not, and never has been, one to actively make enemies- normally he just wishes to live simply, helping those who need it, killing monsters, and mostly minding his own business. When Jaskier showed up, he was definitely roped into a lot of situations he didn’t want to be in, but as he sees the vicious glares turned onto his lover, he feels a flare burn inside of him. So he steels his gaze on the more furious looking in the group, knowing full well that, not matter how powerful the mage, they wouldn’t want a living killing machine like him as their foe. 

The angry mages don’t argue with his statement, and they turn away from the group. Yenn and Triss lead them to the table, where Geralt sees a massive map of the Continent. 

“Nilfgaard’s next target is clearly Sodden,” says the same woman that defended them- Geralt assumes that’s Tissaia. “If we can meet them there-“

“And risk the lives of perfectly capable mages? Why should we get involved with the petty squabbles of kings?” Stregobor replies sharply, earning a cheer behind him. “Let them fight, and let the humans fend for their own lives.”

“We’ve given so much to their ungrateful asses,” crows a witch in the back of the room. “Let them take care of themselves for once!” This earns another cheer. 

“If Nilfgaard takes control of the Continent, then they will have control over everything. Including us. And they will _destroy_ everything that doesn’t suit their needs,” Tissaia reasons, earning her own round of support at her back. “We have to protect our standing kingdoms, to protect chaos as we know it. They utilize forbidden magic.”

“It’s only forbidden because we have not found a way to properly harness it,” argues Stregobor, and it’s clear to Geralt that there were two ringleaders leading two sides at this point. “If a primitive species like the Fae can harness chaos so brilliantly with their debased methods, it’s a wonder why we still struggle. Maybe Nilfgaard will actually bring about a new revolution of learning about Chaos.”

Jaskier tenses next to Geralt, and he can tell it’s taking every ounce of power the prince has to keep himself from speaking up in defense of his people. Yet, Jaskier stays silent. Geralt makes a note to commend him later. 

Yennefer speaks up about the use of forbidden chaos, right before the doors swing open. A mage Geralt doesn’t recognize waltzes in, wearing black and gold and a symbol that Geralt does recognize. Nilfgaard. 

“With Nilfgaard’s vision, we can make the world better. Freer, for all,” the woman states with a smile. “Every mage will be able to expand their capabilities fully, for a good cause. The cause of progression.”

This earns another cheer from Stregobor’s side of the room, as the older mage smiles at Tissaia with a sneaky look. 

“I believe we should take a vote,” Stregobor sneers. “Those who wish to stay out of these petty squabbles? Who want to advance our understanding of chaos to make way for a renaissance of magic?”

Geralt didn’t have to count the raised hands to see that they were outnumbered. But that didn’t stop the mage he hated the most, who put down his hand to add, “And those who wish that we mages all lay down our lives for ungrateful kingdoms, and risk being felled by steel and iron?”

Geralt raised his hand, a sour look on his face, before his heart skips a beat. Stregobor fixed his cool gaze directly in his and Jaskier’s direction at the word iron, and as he hears the sharp intake of breath from the bard next to him, he smells it, a scent he’s never truly smelled before from Jaskier. 

Jaskier was scared. Or, rather, terrified as he shakily raises a hand. He stays silent, however, as the loathed mage smirks. 

“I suppose that settles it, then,” Stregobor purrs. “The Brotherhood will remain detached from these battles with Nilfgaard, and will leave the humans with their battles as we should have from the beginning.”

The group disperses, and Geralt wastes no time pulling Jaskier into an alcove. The Fae looks at him with wide, terrified eyes, his hands shaking. 

“He knows,” the bard says instantly, and Geralt blinks. 

“What?”

“He knows. He knows that I’m Fae. I don’t know how, my glamour is so much stronger than before-“ Jaskier starts to hyperventilate, and Geralt pulls him tightly into a hug. He whispers softly in his ear, stroking his hair in an attempt to calm him. It works, the smaller of them eventually sighing as his heartbeat slows to a more reasonable pace for the bard. 

“He was threatening me. With the racism and the mention of iron. Iron is the only thing that can really wound or kill us,” Jaskier mumbles against Geralt’s neck. “He knows somehow, and he was threatening me.”

“I won’t let him hurt you,” Geralt growls, knowing full well Jaskier is stronger than he could ever dream of being. “I promise.”

Jaskier pulls away enough to kiss Geralt’s cheek gratefully. “I love you,” is all he sighs, and Geralt wants to just slaughter Stregobor even more than before, for hurting and wanting to hurt those he loved the most. 

“I love you too,” Geralt says softly, kissing his forehead. They stay in the alcove, quiet and just drinking in each other’s presence for comfort, before the Fae sighs. 

“We should go find Yenn and Triss. Figure out what to do next.”

Geralt nods, and they leave, hunting the halls for their female companions. 

They find Yennefer, Triss, and Tissaia in a little cluster, away from the others, and Geralt raises an eyebrow. He raises the other in surprise when he sees the mischievous smirk on Tissaia’s sharp features. 

“Dare I ask what’s going on?” Jaskier says as greeting, as the three sorceresses make way for them to join. “You look like the cat who’s getting ready to get the cream.”

“A group of us are going to defend sodden anyway,” the eldest mage says with a grin. “I was inviting our dear Yennefer and Triss to join us. You are welcome as well, of course.”

Jaskier looked to Geralt, who looked back at him. They shrug before turning back to the three women. 

“If Jaskier is in, I am too,” Geralt says, feeling a small flare of amusement at the shock in Yennefer’s eyes at another out-of-character decision for him. 

“I’m in,” Jaskier hisses with a feral grin, and if Geralt wasn’t mistaken, his bard clearly flashed his sharp Fae teeth. He often forgets about the constant bloodlust that lives in Jaskier, and at times it concerns him, he won’t deny. 

Tissaia grins as well. “Then it is settled. We’ll portal to Sodden in just a few hours- we need to collect ingredients for spells.”

“We prepared a lot of spells and potions yesterday, too,” Triss replies with a proud smile as she hands the eldest witch a parchment stating their inventory. “And Jaskier has... a knack for finding floral ingredients.”

“Perfect,” Tissaia replies with a wicked look in her eye. “Then we should be able to leave within the hour.”

They disperse, Geralt and Jaskier following Yennefer as she leads them around the school to gather items and ingredients. They reach the large greenhouse in the school, and Jaskier’s eyes shine. 

“I haven’t seen some of these before,” he whispers in awe, touching the thick leaves of one plant and the delicate blue petals of another. “Some of these are so rare...”

“Well, I figured you’d like it here,” Yennefer muses with amusement in her eyes. “And I figured I’d give you a gift.”

Jaskier and Geralt both blink in surprise. It’s not like Yennefer to give gifts, especially considering how prickly she’s been to Jaskier in the past. 

She smiles as she reaches into a cabinet of random supplies it seems, pulling out a few little pouches and a strip of leather. She closes her eyes as the pouches and leather stitch themselves into a belt, the little pouches lined up along it. She opens her eyes with an exhale and hands it to Jaskier. 

“We use these to hold little bottles of potions,” Yennefer explains as she hands Jaskier the pouch. “I figured you’d like it to hold seeds from unusual plants you find so you can grow them later. I read up a bit on Fae, and I know you can’t summon plants that aren’t already in the ground unless you have seeds.”

“Oh my- thank you, Yennefer,” Jaskier breathes as he takes the belt. He opens one, revealing small strips of leather separating the bottom of the pouch so one could neatly fit maybe 8 tiny vials in it. 

“They’re all separated like that,” Yennefer adds with a grin, opening a chest filled with hundreds of tiny vials. “Have fun.”

Jaskier grins brightly, hugging her tightly and kissing her cheek. “Thank you so much, my dear Yennefer, I don’t have enough words to describe what this means to me!” He exclaims in what Geralt considers a lot of words already. 

Yennefer laughs and pushes him off gently. “Go, collect your plants before we have to leave.”

As Jaskier prances happily about the room, going to extravagant and colorful looking plants and collecting seeds and other bits and bobs he may need, Geralt approaches Yennefer. 

“That was very kind of you,” he remarks to her as he watches his love in his element, literally, as he plants and collects seeds and marks vials and helps make the garden a true sight to behold. Yennefer hums with a smile. 

“I figured he’d like it. I won’t deny it, I’ve grown fond of your idiot bard,” she admits with a shrug. “Plus we have the added bonus of his Fae strength being able to help us with the battle.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replies, content. Jaskier grins at him as he approaches. 

“I’ve filled barely half of the vials and I’ve gone through every plant in here! And they’re so interesting!” The bard announces happily, taking Geralt’s hands. He looks to Yennefer. “Thank you!”

She smiles and nods. “Of course, bardling. We should head back down o meet Tissaia.”

The pair of men nod in understanding, and they follow the sorceress down to the main floor of the school, Geralt’s heart soaring in his chest at the sheer onslaught of excitement radiating from Jaskier. 

——————

By the time Geralt, Jaskier, Yennefer, Triss, and Tissaia manage to portal to Sodden Hill, a couple dozen other mages had already arrived via boat and, with many townsfolk, had already started to secure a nearby fortress upon the hill. As their little group walks through the throng, they receive a number of whispers and glances and stares. He honestly wasn’t very surprised- it wasn’t often that a human saw not only a Witcher, but also some of the most powerful mages on the Continent. And, regarding Yennefer and Jaskier specifically, the two most dramatically dressed individuals on the Continent as well. 

As the sun creeps across the sky, it’s more planning and spell making and strategizing. A few dozen more mages arrive, thankfully, by boat or portal or across land. Nilfgaard wasn’t expected to arrive for another 2 days at least, so they called upon Skellige for their army, which would hopefully arrive near the end of the following day. The two days they had were going to be dedicated to fortifying their walls with magic and physical obstructions, as well as making as many weapons as they can. 

Geralt settles himself at another table, watching Jaskier flounce around camp. He sings and helps folks with spells, discreetly sprouting the floral ingredients they may need with his new seed collection. He gives pretty flowers to many, and generally brightens everyone’s faces with his contagious vibrance. Geralt feels himself smile as he watches Jaskier hand a pretty yellow poppy to a girl that looks no older than eighteen, earning a shy smile. Geralt raises an eyebrow at his mate as the Fae darts back to him and kisses the Witcher’s cheek. 

“What do poppies mean?” Geralt muses as Jaskier drapes himself over the Witcher’s broad back and shoulders. This earns a little noise of delight and another cheek kiss. 

“You remembered! Poppies have many meanings, but yellow ones such as that one signify victory, my dear heart.”

“You certainly know how to raise morale,” Geralt remarks and Jaskier scoffs playfully. 

“I’m a bard, it’s in the job description!” He crows loudly in Geralt’s ear, earning a gentle whack on the arm as the Witcher bats him away with a large hand. 

“You’re loud. Go help poor Triss, she looks like she needs some juniper.”

Jaskier sighs dramatically, smiling playfully as he does so. “Fine... c’mere first,” he demands, making grabby hands at Geralt. The Witcher rolls his eyes before walking into his embrace, hands on the bard’s sides as he kisses him softly. They sway a little for a moment, lost in their embrace, before Geralt pulls away. Jaskier pouts but Geralt simply rolls his eyes again. 

“Go. Be useful,” Geralt commands with a light, playful shove, a small smile on his face, and Jaskier does so, blowing a kiss behind him as he bounces towards where Yennefer is mixing explosives. 

——————

Night falls, and the camp halts their production, lighting a massive bonfire. Townsfolk and mages of all ages, from headstrong young teens to witches hundreds of years old, gather and talk, eating and drinking after a long day’s work. 

Jaskier, having taken a bit of a vocal break near the end of the day, immediately pounces into action, singing joyously as nimble fingers pluck at his lute. He leads the crowd into chanting his favorite bawdy songs, the teens seeming to be the most excited to join in with yelling the frankly ridiculous lyrics. Ale is sparse and awful but everyone downs it anyway, laughing at the colorful bard’s clever antics. 

Geralt watches the Fae at his best, entertaining a crowd as they dance and clap. He feels a smile creep across his face as he sips from his own tankard, grimacing only a little at the taste. 

“You did well,” comments an older woman as she sits next to him with an apple in her hand. “He’s a delight. I can see why you adore him so.”

“Oh-“ Geralt says, blinking in surprise. “Is it really that obvious?”

She laughs and nods biting from the crisp fruit. “Clear as day. These next few days are going to be difficult. Enjoy your time with him while we’re able to relax like this.”

Geralt looks at her for a moment, before nodding. “Yes ma’am,” he mumbles, feeling a bit like a kid again at the tone in her voice- maternal and kind. He stands, setting down his tankard as he approaches the bard, who looks at him with a giant grin. 

“The great White Wolf has joined the festivities!” Jaskier cries happily with a dramatic strum. His adoring audience cheers jovially, and Geralt feels himself relax. 

“Are you drunk?” He asks Jaskier, who scoffs. 

“Haven’t drunk a drop, but I’m drunk off of the energy, dear heart! You should dance!”

Geralt laughs softly and shakes his head. “I can’t dance.”

“Bollocks,” the Fae argues, winding his arms loosely around Geralt’s neck. His slim fingers comb through long hair, and Geralt can feel him playing with the dandelion pin seated neatly on the back of his head, keeping the white strands from his face. “You just haven’t tried. Please?”

Geralt stares him down with a raised eyebrow, before sighing. “One dance.”

Jaskier’s face lights up like the sun as crowd cheers again. 

It’s more than one dance, but Geralt can’t complain. Not with the smiles of those around him so bright, and with the amount of kisses pressed to his lips. 

——————

The evening winds down, and everyone simply makes camp where there’s free space. Geralt finds a spot that no one would like, one that’s hard and barren, knowing Jaskier could summon soft grass where the others couldn’t. 

As the moon rises, Geralt lays with Jaskier tucked up against his side. The bard’s heartbeat is slow and steady, relaxed as his fingers play with Geralt’s medallion curiously. It reminds Geralt of his other little accessory, and he furrows his brows. 

“A lot of people I met said they could feel magic on that pin you gave me,” the Witcher says softly. “What spell did you put on it?”

Jaskier shrugs, but his eyes are clever and mischievous. “A protection spell, of sorts. Keeps away anyone daring enough to lust after you.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replies, not satisfied with the answer, but trusting the bard’s reasoning behind making the joke. 

As the camp settles into sleep, Geralt recounts the events of the day again in his mind. He falls asleep quickly, warm from the man next to him and from the pleasant memories made. 

——————

When Geralt wakes, the sky is on fire, and Yennefer is screaming. 

Geralt quickly shakes Jaskier awake as he watches Yennefer send the massive fireball flying in another direction. She starts to yell louder, waking the others, and Jaskier and Geralt quickly join her, rushing about to wake everyone up. 

As Yennefer redirects another massive fireball, everyone in the camp knows. 

The battle of Sodden Hill has begun. 

——————

“They were supposed to be days away!” yells one man. 

“We can’t do this without Skellige!” exclaims a woman. 

“Enough! We will just have to make do with what we have,” orders Tissaia, and under her command, the battle wages. 

Geralt is ordered to help catapult explosives for now. He knows that everyone else knows that his capabilities lie amongst combat, but he had to keep the soldiers out for as long as possible. He may be a fine tuned killing machine, but even he can’t defeat an army. 

He watches Yennefer be sent up to one of the towers, and watches her bring Jaskier with. No one else in the camp knows about Jaskier’s blood, and for good reason. Humans have never been terribly kind regarding the topic of Fae- they were as cruel to, if not more, Fae than Witchers, even. 

“Fae went into hiding for a reason,” Jaskier had simply said. 

Geralt is snapped back to himself at a countdown, and at three, their little catapult fires. 

And everything burns. 

——————

Things predictably start to come to a head when the gates fall.

Geralt stays put, however, watching Triss cover the battlefield in wretched mushrooms as the thick, almost choking acrid scent of magical smoke fills his nostrils. He looks up at the two watch towers. Jaskier is surveying what he can, a bow in his hand as he downs soldiers one by one from his perch. Yennefer’s eyes are closed, mouth moving quickly. 

The Witcher readies his potions- pulling out his rarest potion, saved for foes that take a deadly amount of time to battle such as the Striga- an ancient Leshen Decoction, for stamina. The army may be physically inferior to him, but there were many- he needed to stay steady. 

He watches carefully as Triss presses her hands to the ground again, and panics as she collapses. 

He rushes forward, but at this point another mage has her. He looks around, looking for anything else he can do, anyone else he can help. Geralt knows that once he surges onto the battlefield, he’s not coming back until he reaches his limit or Nilfgaard falls. 

Geralt watches a pair of men fall, and rushes towards them. They groan, but seem okay. So why does something feel-

The camp explodes. 

——————

Geralt fades in an out for a few moments- he recalls an explosion close to his left- his ears are ringing. He groans- his face is hot, his hair is singed on one side. His arm hurts. What was going on?

A pair of voices fades in and out of his ringing hearing- 

“-alt! Geralt! Fuck-“

“Where’s his pouch-“

“Yes! That’s Swallow.”

“Alright, you oaf, you won’t die just yet-“

Geralt is rolled over and he feels thing fingers pry his lips open, pouring an absolutely foul liquid down his throat. He gulps down the almost acidic substance, coughing. He feels his ears clear, however, and the pain subsides after a moment. He opens his eyes, and crouched above him are Jaskier and Yennefer. 

“Thank fuck,” Yennefer exclaims, while Jaskier presses a frantic kiss to Geralt’s forehead. 

“What... what happened?” Geralt groans as he sits up. He winces as his burnt skin heals and rubs against the rough fabrics of his clothing. 

“We don’t know. All of our explosive bottles were triggered in the camp-“ Jaskier hisses, looking around. 

“It was Fringilla. Mind control magic. Forbidden.” Yennefer’s hands are shaking, and Geralt can smell the fury pulsing off of her in waves. “Two dead.”

Geralt curses, standing despite Jaskier’s advice. He feels stronger as is, if a bit winded. With Swallow already in his system, however, his Decoction would do nothing more than poison him. As Geralt catches a glimpse of the shattered and dripping glass vial, he accepts that he will be going into battle without. 

“Is it time then?” Geralt growls, and Jaskier nods, expression grave as he pulls out a rapier. 

And with that, the Witcher, the sorceress, and the Fae prince advance onto the battlefield. 

With that, it’s all muscle memory for Geralt. He slashed and swings, blocked and disarms and mutilates. Soldier after soldier after soldier, they all meet his blades- he thinks he may feel bad for the young men and women if it weren’t for the skills beaten into him at a young age. 

He spins and catches glimpse of Yennefer, hand pressed to a wound in her stomach as she flicks her wrist, and another body falls. As another soldier collapses in front of Geralt, he catches glimpse of Jaskier, double wielding his rapier and his poison shortsword. A colorful flash of movement, he fells another and another and another, ruthless and practiced and with a speed unmatched. 

Geralt watches in horror as Jaskier gasps in pain, despite there not being any wounds on him that Geralt can smell. And his stomach drops as a blade sinks through Jaskier’s hip, and the Fae screams, and Geralt smells iron.

 _”Jaskier!!”_ he yells as the Fae collapses, cutting down soldiers left and right to get to him. Jaskier coughs, and looks up at Geralt in pain.

”Iron weapons,” he coughs again, hands shaking. “Stregobor sold me out.”

Geralt’s eyes widen, and he grits his teeth. “Get away,” he tells Jaskier. “I’ll cover for you, but get cover, please.”

Jaskier nods and Geralt squeezes his hand before he turns and pushes into the fray, keeping as many away from Jaskier as he can.

Time becomes nothing to Geralt, just blood and muscle memory. Soon there’s simply a trail of bodies in his wake, but even he is starting to tire. 

He gasps as a sword is thrust into the meat of his shoulder, and quickly finishes the man wielding the weapon. The Witcher can’t even pause before another is charging him, and another. He glances around, but Jaskier is a ways away, edging up a rock with two soldiers pushing him, fighting how he can with a shaky hand and what looks like multiple wounds. His skin looks pale and gaunt. Meanwhile, Yennefer is crouched next to what seems to be an exhausted Tissaia at her limit, both mages looking to be severely wounded. His breath stutters- were the tides turning out of their favor?

And as that thought enters his mind, the earth shivers, and a harrowing scream pierces the air. 

All pause, crouching low as both Nilfgaardian and otherwise protect their eardrums. Geralt checks his wound quickly- shallow, not bleeding too terribly, healing from the last remnants of Swallow in his system. Good. 

“The Princess- they- they found her!” Shouts a soldier, and Geralt’s heart sinks. No... how did a child reach the wretched battlefield?

The affronting soldier is quickly felled, and Geralt quickly spins, running away to catch up to Jaskier. 

“They have Cirilla,” he gasps, swiftly beheading a few soldiers that stood in his way. “They have-“

“Go to her,” Jaskier says, killing the last soldier with a shaky swing, and Geralt shakes his head. 

“I can’t- there are too many-“

“Go.” Jaskier smiles at him, eyes tired as blood trickles down his lip, glancing over to where Yennefer is approaching the large rock they stand on with a scorching look in her eye. “We’ll take care of it.”

Geralt stares at them, but nods. He steps away from the rock as wounded sorceress and Fae looks at each other. He begins to run as they nod, smiles on their faces. 

He’s approaching the front line once again as the pair link hands, Jaskier’s careful glamour falling like water, wings snapping open. 

And as the first soldier raises his blade at Geralt

Fire rains from above

And the ground erupts

As Fae and mage unleash their power upon their adversaries with a scream

And leave a scorched, but safe, path for Geralt, clean through the flora and the flame and the fallen. 

And Geralt runs. 

On one side, thick vines, larger than trees, emerge from the cracked and blood soaked earth, strangling and suffocating and dragging their victims beneath the soil. 

On the other side, a pure, untamed flame scorches all it touches, and somehow saves Geralt from its wrath as he runs towards the source of the child’s scream. 

He reaches the tree line and continues, seeing the wreckage around him become less from the almost divine wrath behind him, and more from what looked to be an earthquake. He runs, and trees are felled around him, and the earth flattens, and the scenery around him looks for all the world like a massive boot came in and crushed it all. 

He hears voices- angry, gleeful, masculine, feminine, and a child. 

As he enters a clearing, as everything becomes perfectly flat around him, he sees easily four or five dozen soldiers advancing on a small figure

clad in blue 

and reeking of fear. 

She looks at Geralt with big blue eyes filling with realization as the soldiers rush towards her. Geralt growls and bares his teeth and _yells_. It’s not a word, or even a syllable. It’s primal and angry and the sound of a wolf doing all it can to protect its pup. 

As the soldiers turn, their grind grow wicked. Geralt feels his heart thrum with energy, heart pounding as he realizes what easy prey he is indeed. A wounded, exhausted Witcher, against sixty men?

And then Geralt realizes that the energy surging in his veins isn’t adrenaline. 

He feels it click. He feels all the offhand comments and the jokes and the inquiries merge together in his head he plucks the vibrating dandelion pin from his blood-tinted, singed hair, looks at Cirilla, tells her to look away, hopes she understands-

And plunges it into the earth. 

Geralt is thrown back as the ground erupts once again- every plant and tree that was flattened around him sprouts and suffocates the black clad soldiers in front of him- thorny vines wrap around soft throats, blood red roses blooming on the stalks. Ivy crawls under armor and does unspeakable, unseen damage as spiny castor oil plants attach themselves to any exposed surface they can reach, their potent toxin causing soldiers to vomit and collapse instantly. Oleander flowers erupt behind white teeth and pink lips, and toxic mushrooms erupt from the blood saturated soil. 

Geralt winces as the soldiers in front of him, every last one, are each dealt a creative and vicious death via plant. As the commotion settles, Geralt yanks his precious pin from the ground and rushes past the twitching and mutilated forms around him. 

He’s relieved to see that Cirilla closed her eyes, and he kneels in front of her, hoping his massive body can shield the child’s eyes from the macabre scene behind him. 

“I’m here. You’re safe,” he rumbles, and two big blue eyes open wide. The young princess’ eyes fill with tears as she smiles wide, and Geralt feels something in his heart fill as he pulls his daughter into a tight hug. 

Despite the blood and the gore and the trauma, despite the harrowing ventures that they both went through to get here, he knew that the quivering figure in his arms was what he had been waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI YES I hope you guys liked that!!
> 
> I’ve been planning that use for the dandelion pin since the beginning ;)
> 
> I’ve never written battle scenes before, but I really actually am very proud of how this one came out? As well as like this whole chapter?? 
> 
> And we have Ciri now!! So much!!!
> 
> I also hope y’all enjoyed Jaskier and Yennefer being absolutely badass. I had that mental image in my head of thick rolling tree roots and big vines and fire and honestly I hope I did it justice.
> 
> There will be a nice little epilogue coming soon!! Thank you all for reading!!


	6. Dandelion Petals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> It is with great joy that I bring you the finale to this fic. It took a while for me to bring this to fruition, but the reason why will be stated at the end of the fic as a little surprise!
> 
> This is my first fic, and it’s 30k+ words? That’s insane!! And you have all been so kind and wonderful, and I couldn’t be more grateful.
> 
> So, without further ado, I bring you the end of The Heart is a Muscle.
> 
> Enjoy!

Nilfgaard falls.

The empire remains with its chokehold upon the kingdoms it has felled, yes, but the massive army that comprised the brute force of the empire was gone, killed by blaze and blade and brush. 

When Geralt had returned to the barren battlefield, the young princess cradled carefully in his arms, the battle was over. The ground was blackened and scorched on one side, overrun with massive vines and exotic, toxic plants on the other. And in the middle, the perfectly untouched path that Geralt had ran down not long earlier. It’s down this path he walks now, the scent of grass smoke and charred flesh causing him to wrinkle his nose. Ciri looks around curiously, and he lets her where he didn’t before, seeing as there were no bodies or gore to be seen under the dark ash and the frankly impressive menagerie of plants. His heart thuds as he hears a call from the massive rock at the end of the path- Yennefer. His stomach drops as he peers closer with his enhanced eyes- only the sorceress’s head could be seen peeking over the stone. Where was Jaskier?

Yennefer calls for him again and he can hear the fear in her voice, and he sprints.

——————

“Any word?” Geralt asks, standing quickly as the exhausted Skellige healer enters. The man shakes his head. 

“I’ve never seen Fae before,” he admits, and while his eye is wary towards the prone prince, Geralt can smell no hostility towards them. Healers are often like that- no matter who you may be, they can’t stand to leave a creature to suffer. 

When Geralt had arrived at the rock, it had been to find an exhausted Yennefer, power depleted, kneeling over an unconscious Jaskier. He had used the last dredges of his power to give to her to finish the fight and stay alive, she explained. The Fae was bleeding from his wounds, wounds Geralt knew wouldn’t heal at Jaskier’s normal pace because of the weapons that dealt them. 

Thankfully, Skellige had arrived shortly, to find a weakened, bloody Witcher begging for help. Ciri flanked him, wearing one of Yennefer’s coats, one she had brought along to the camp. Her hair was hidden under a thick hood- they knew not how friendly Skellige could be to the lost princess, but Geralt refused to leave Jaskier or Ciri. The king blanched at the battered, bloody wings, their state barely quelling their majesty, and called for his healers to take care of Jaskier and the other injured survivors, joining Yennefer in their search for the fallen.

There were fourteen casualties- Geralt’s chest aches at that. Nevertheless, he stays by Jaskier’s bed, and waits. 

The bard’s wounds are sewn up and treated, but Geralt can see the Fae’s body shiver, his skin pale. The iron flows still through his system, a potentially lethal toxin, and, despite the energy and potions and magic the mages pour into him, little helps. 

Yennefer disappears after the third day of Jaskier’s coma. She was adamant to be taken care of last, and as soon as she was healed and rested, she went out searching for help for Jaskier. 

Geralt can’t do anything now except wait. 

Well, and take care of his daughter. 

He spends the first evening after the battle with Ciri, talking to her as they both sit on Geralt’s bed, his own wounds on the tail end of their healing. She tells him her story- how she was whisked from the castle during the attack, how she was cornered multiple times by those who wanted to hurt her, and taken care of at times by people who simply didn’t know better. Geralt told her of the Path- what a Witcher does, how old he is, how he came to be connected to her. She asked many questions he both did and did not expect- why was his hair white? Can he see in the dark? Why does Jaskier have wings? What is Fae? What is the biggest monster Geralt has ever fought? And so on. The childlike wonder in the questions is refreshing. 

The poor princess has nightmares. This was of no surprise to Geralt, but it did make his heart ache deep in his chest- when her screams pierced the air, tinged with magic but tightly controlled, even in her moments of madness. When he sleeps in the tent next to Jaskier’s and he feels a tiny hand shake him awake and little arms push his arm out of the way to curl up under it. When he holds her close as she shivers with fear, and both eventually fall back to sleep. 

Geralt is no stranger to nightmares, but fuck if he wouldn’t do anything to make sure this little girl was safe from the night’s horrors. 

When he’s allowed, he stays in Jaskier’s room. Sometimes he reads, and Ciri curiously chats with Triss, and Yennefer, before the sorceress left. Sometimes he just holds Jaskier’s prone, warm hand and talks. He rarely talks, he knows, but he fills the silence with words, words he can gift to Jaskier again when he wakes. 

Ciri sometimes sits with Geralt too. She sits and she talks to Jaskier after seeing Geralt do so, telling them both all about her day and what she liked when she was in Cintra. Sometimes her voice gets sad, and Geralt hoists her onto his lap and simply holds her, comforting her the best he can. 

She brings Jaskier a little bouquet of flowers one day, and Geralt gets her a little vase from an old tankard and some river water. 

The flowers don’t die, and Geralt’s hope stands firm. 

On the seventh day of Jaskier’s coma, Yennefer crashes into the healer’s tent, eyes wide and hair wild. Geralt stands quickly, thankful Tissaia was babysitting Ciri for the next couple of hours, the eldest mage having proven her trust to Geralt a few times now. 

“Are you okay? What happened?” Geralt immediately asks, alarmed by the break in Yennefer’s usual cool demeanor. The poor sorceress gets barely through saying “I found-“ before the tent flap is opened by another, and another woman strolls through. A tad shorter than Yennefer, her long, shining blue-black hair is tied into a loose braid around her head and cascading down her back. She wears a dark blue-green gown, the fabric decorated with a silver decor that seems to ripple like waves in the light as a turquoise pashmina flows over her arms and shoulders. Her skin is pale and seems to almost shimmer in the light, her wrists and neck and ears and hair decorated with delicate silver and aquamarine. She looks upon Geralt with bright blue eyes, hard as ice and just as sharp, rearing for a battle if need be. 

Geralt’s mind recognizes her just as soon as she opens her mouth and demands: 

“ _Where_ is my brother?”

Felina leaves no time to answer once she sees Jaskier, lying on his back in the bed, same as he has for a week now. Geralt moves to stand next to Yennefer as the Fae pushes past him, the mage looking generally annoyed but unhurt. 

“She practically accosted me outside Posada,” Yennefer explains with a huff. “I’m glad I found her, seeing as she might be able to actually help Jaskier, but she practically pounced on me like a wild cat finding a mouse.” Geralt smiles slightly at her exasperated eyeroll, and squeezes her shoulder. 

“Thank you, Yen,” he says, voice warm, and she exhales and relaxes. 

“Whatever- I’m going to go find Triss,” Yennefer snarks in response, but she squeezes his wrist affectionately anyway before she leaves Geralt alone with an unconscious Fae and his fired up sister. 

He turns, and jumps a little as Felina gets in his face. She narrows her eyes as she looks him over, an eyebrow raised. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said finally, seeming to settle. “Well. In person,” she adds with a smirk. 

“Is he okay?” Geralt asks in way of response, always straight to the point. “He was hit with iron, he’s been asleep for a week-“

“I can’t do anything,” Felina interrupts. “I’m no healer. You’re lucky I could tell something was wrong, and brought one.”

Geralt blinks. “Oh. Right. How did you know?”

Felina snorts, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her hand smooths over the arch of Jaskier’s folded wing, peeking out from under the blanket. It’s a practiced movement, borne of decades of habit- the comforting touch of a sibling. 

“He released so much magic into the air and the earth it was like a beacon. He’s never used that much energy before,” she remarks. “And injured? It’s no wonder he’s in this state. Lucky for you, your friend was right by Jildaan right after I managed to convince my brother to let me go out and search for him. He’s very adamant about ‘staying out of the quarrels of man’, Dobran is. Nilfgaard affects us too, though.” Her eyes are wistful as she admits this, stroking Jaskier’s wing again and again with almost absent movements. “There are many Fae who have fallen under the allure of power that Nilfgaard promises. I’m just glad that you all managed to eliminate the main threat, and gave us all time to regroup.”

“Does it scare you?” Geralt finds himself asking, and the princess shrugs. 

(A small voice in the back of Geralt’s mind comments on his ability to attract royalty to him, from Jaskier to Cirilla to the Fae in front of him.)

“Yes and no. I know that my soldiers, my siblings, and I could take an army without a sweat together. But it’s the ability to brainwash so many that scares me. Physical numbers are not as much of a threat as a few manipulative words.”

Geralt simply hums in agreement at that. He fidgets slightly, wanting to say something but unsure. Felina’s mouth quirks at that. 

“You truly love him, don’t you?” She asks quietly. “It kills you to see him like this.”

Geralt hesitates, feeling bare, but nods. “Every moment.” Felina’s eyes gleam with understanding. 

“I understand the feeling. My husband is my light, and my son is my life. Without them-“ she shrugs. “Well, to see either of them hurt would kill me. My husband is human, however, and I will long outlive him. So I take every moment as it comes and I try and stay by him to love him while I am able.” She looks down at her lap, then back up at the Witcher. “I know about that mountain, Geralt of Rivia. And I know what happened. And I know that Julian would not be by your side if he knew you were anything but a good man. I trust you will take care of him, son of Destiny.”

Geralt bows his head. “Thank you,” he says sheepishly at the blessing. “I’ll give him everything I have.”

Felina smiles in content at that, her eyes shining with trust. However, the delicate moment is shattered as the tent flap opens again. The Witcher turns to see who the new person is, and his stomach drops at the sight of bright eyes and a plump frame and a kind, familiar smile. She hadn’t changed a bit.

“Madura-“ Geralt whispers as the old Fae healer grins at him brightly. 

“Long time no see, my dear,” she says kindly before she’s enveloped in a hug. 

——————

After some short, but very heartfelt recognitions and reconciliations where Geralt gets _a little too close_ to crying, the careful healer approaches Jaskier, tutting. 

“He’s fighting with everything he has,” Madura comments, smoothing her hand over Jaskier’s forehead carefully. “He’s always been a stubborn one. I’m glad I’m here, because I have just the thing to help him along.” The older woman digs through a set of pouches attached to her belt, not unlike the set Yennefer gifted to Jaskier not long before. She pulls out a vial of a liquid clear as water, if shimmering a bit unusually, like iridescence in a bottle. She tilts Jaskier’s head back slightly and pours it into his mouth, massaging his throat so he could swallow it. 

“It will take time to work into his system, but it shouldn’t be long,” Madura states to Geralt and Felina who were standing, watching her. Geralt felt a bit like a child as he did so. “Hang tight, and he should wake up in a couple of hours.”

The pair nod, sighing in relief. Felina glances at Geralt with a mischievous smirk. “So... how _did_ you meet my brother?”

Before Geralt can respond, Madura claps her hands happily. “Oh! My dear, let me tell you a story of when a giant Witcher arrived at Jildaan, bloody and falling off his horse...”

——————

It takes five hours for Jaskier to awaken. 

By this time, their little tent was practically a full party. Yennefer and Triss arrived shortly after Madura had started telling Felina the story of a tired Witcher and an excitable young Fae, and had made sure to include every embarrassing detail she possibly could, to the delight of all three women. They talked for a bit, sharing stories as they got to know each other. It didn’t take long for Tissaia to arrive with Ciri, and soon the group was sitting around Jaskier’s bed with a much more jovial air, a bottle of sweet mead passed amongst the adults as little Cirilla flitted from person to person in the way that only children could. 

The tent flap is soon secured and the remaining glamours are dropped, Felina’s kingfisher wings glistening with magic and majesty, curled proudly behind her back with a regal air. Madura’s wings were a tad more ruffled by age, but no less elegant, with the yellow and black feathers of a Prothonotary Warbler gleaming in the faded sun and warm firelight. 

The group laughs and talks, Geralt glancing often at Jaskier, hoping each minute that that would be the minute that the lively bard would wake. When he’s wrong each time, he just touches him, squeezing his hand and stroking his forehead and ghosting fingers along his pale forearm. 

As the sun begins to set, the hand that Geralt was loosely holding in his own starts to twitch. The Witcher’s heart thuds as he watches Jaskier’s face scrunch up with a groan, then he feels himself smile wide and bright as he watches the bard’s eyes open, revealing the cornflower blue that Geralt has completely and shamelessly fallen for. 

“Geralt....?” Jaskier groans, sitting up slowly before he’s enveloped in a firm hug. Geralt practically sobs as he feels weak arms wrap sleepily around him in return, and doesn’t let go for many moments. When he eventually does, it’s for Jaskier to pull him into a kiss, chaste but sweet. 

“Welcome to the waking world, again, dear heart,” says Madura, and Jaskier pulls away, eyes wide in disbelief. 

“Dury? _Lina?_ ” he exclaims in shock as he takes in the crowd around him. “What’s going on?”

“You’ve been asleep for a week- ever since the battle,” Yennefer exclaims with a wide, happy grin. “We won. And found a little friend in the process.”

Jaskier’s mind seemed to whirl as he looked upon Ciri, who climbed onto the bed and smiled at him. “Hi,” she said sheepishly, and Geralt watched as Jaskier’s wings puffed in a way that he had learned was a gesture of affection. 

“Hello-“ Jaskier says with a small wave, eyes full of wondrous disbelief. “You guys all stayed here? For me?”

The group nods, and the atmosphere is warm and happy and infectious.

“We wanted you to be okay,” Geralt says, almost shy. It’s a new feeling, but his heart is warm. “We wanted to be here for you.”

Jaskier’s eyes shine damply at that, and he kisses his lover’s cheek with a smile. 

“We missed you,” Triss says with a warm smile. “This little group is quiet without you.”

Jaskier laughs at that, and the bright sound is the most beautiful Geralt has ever heard. 

“Wait, is this a party?” The bard remarks, earning a round of laughs as everyone catches him up on the conversations of the evening. Jaskier slips into the joviality like a duck takes to water, but Geralt simply watches. He watches as his love shines once again, as his best friend and her lover practically glow with joy. As his new friends, the elderly mage and the stubborn Fae princess, seem to fit in like puzzle pieces without effort. As the first woman to truly treat him with a maternal sort of love sets out to embarrass both of the poor Fae siblings, and as his own daughter clutches at Jaskier’s sleeve excitedly as he joins in with his own tales. 

As Geralt watches, he sees a new sort of love fill up the room, feels it in his chest. It’s different from the love that he feels with his wolf brothers, though no less potent. 

Jaskier glances towards him at some point, eyebrow quirked curiously. “What’s on your mind, my dear?” He asks, smiling softly as Geralt presses a kiss to his forehead. 

“Just thinking about you all. My family.”

Jaskier’s face practically splits at the seams as he grins widely, so bright it was almost blinding. 

“You’re right- your family,” the Fae whispers, squeezing his hand before kissing him slowly. 

It takes a moment before Geralt can hear the jeers and the noises of disgust, though he knows it’s all in good fun. He pulls away from Jaskier with clear reluctance, earning another laugh from all around. As they tease and pull him into conversation, Geralt feels a part of him finally slide into place, a solid feeling that he hadn’t felt in eons. He looks at Madura and sees her watching him, a knowing smile upon her face. 

And as Geralt looks upon the joyous, loving faces around him, he feels a warmth seep into his very bones, and he knows that, at long last, he is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I cannot thank you all enough once again for all the wonderful comments and kudos upon this fic. This has been such an amazing journey, and I was hoping for maybe a 2 chapter long 10k word fic, and, with the wonderful support of you all, it’s ended up being three times as long! And it makes me so unbelievably happy and I am so, so glad I got to share this with you.
> 
> One of the reasons for the delay (other than school ending) is that a good friend of mine and I are now hosting a [Geraskier Fic/Art Exchange!](https://bit.ly/2WZRgPe) Signups just opened yesterday, and will be open until June 19! So please, go check it out!
> 
> I am very excited to announce that I have a few new fics planned after this, so stay tuned! Overall, however, I could not be happier for this fic to be my first. I couldn’t have done it without you all, and I thank you all dearly.
> 
> Until next time! <3
> 
> [Come check out my art and other works!](https://linktr.ee/saturnsthirdeye)


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